| WELCOME TO ILLOGICAL MUSE SUMMER 2007 |
| From The Editor July 13, 2007 |
| Beginning with this issue I will start doing reviews. I'm going to try to do 1 or 2 per quarter but it all depends upon how much time I have available to commit. I'll review pretty much anything that has to do with the arts and media. That includes books, albums, websites, artwork, and small press mags. Anyone wishing to send material for review should consult the guidelines first.
The book I reviewed for this issue of Illogical Muse got me thinking about the many different forms of poetry and how far poetry has come since the days of Shakespeare. I had intended to write an essay but was overwhelmed by the information out there and I wasn�t able to make the deadline. So, I�ll save it for a future edition of Illogical Muse. However, I did put together a list of journals that specialize in a particular form of poetry and I hope you will note them with interest. I found most of them in The Poet's Market so I believe the information is current, but it's always best to check with the editor before submitting anything. I would like to thank all the editors who have helped me with my research: Marie Summers (White Lotus Magazine), Michael Dylan Welch (Tundra), Leonard McCarthy (Candelabrum Poetry Magazine), Charles Trumball (Modern Haiku), John Stevenson (Frogpond), Ayaz Darl Nielsen (Bear Creek Haiku), Aya Katz (Inverted-A Horn), Anna Evans (Barefoot Muse), and Roseanne Ritzema (Presa Press). |
| Exphrasis This is the only journal I found specializing in exphrastic verse, although I'm sure there are more out there. In case you don't know, exphrastic verse is poetic writing concerning itself with the visual arts, artistic objects, and/or highly visual scenes. For more information on this type of writing click here. For information on the journal itself, contact Laverne & Carol Frith, P.O. Box 161236, Sacramento CA 95816. E-mail [email protected] |
| Big Toe Review Specializing in prose poetry, BTR is an online magazine accepting only e-mail submissions. Also accepts flash fiction and is now looking for essasys on writing. For complete guidelines visit www.bigtoereview.com |
| Touchstone Literary Journal Seeks experimental poetry. Contact William Laufer, P.O. Box 130233, The Woodlands TX 77393. |
| Decoy Formerly Lullaby Hearse, Decoy is an online magazine looking for experimental works. You gotta stop by and check out the awesome works by Ross in Issue No. 9. www.decoylit.com |
| Lyric Poetry Review Specializes in, what else, lyric poetry. www.lyricreview.org |
| Measure A journal of metrical poetry published by the English Department at The University of Evansville, Indiana. They do have a website but only accept submissions by postal mail. More information is available @ http://measure.evansville.edu/ |
| Ribbons Published by The Tanka Society of America, Ribbons first issue premiered in Spring of '05. http://members.aol.com/tsapoetry |
| White Lotus Magazine A biannual publication accepting submissions of haiku, senryu, tanka and haiga. Published by Shadow Poetry, they also publish SP Quill, a contemporary magazine accepting poetry, fiction and non-fiction. http://www.shadowpoetry.com |
| Wisteria A Journal of Haiku, Senryu, & Tanka. Accepts submissions by ground mail or e-mail. http://wistaria.blogspot.com/ |
| Tundra Specializes in short poems; 13 lines or less. Visit the website at http://hometown.aol.com/welchm/Tundra.html |
| Haiku Headlines http://www.haikuworld.org/survey/ Unfortunately, editor David Priebe has passed on but in memory I leave this here. May you find peace in the afterlife, David. |
| Red Lights A relatively new journal publishing tanka, Red Lights is a semi-annual publication. Visit http://www.tankacentral.com for more information. |
| Candelabrum Poetry Magazine Based in England, and published by Red Candle Press, this journal looks for metrical and rhymed poetry. M. L. McCarthy, 1 Chatsworth Court, Outram Rd., Southsea, P05 1RA England |
| Modern Haiku One of the oldest English language haiku magazines. Publishes contemporary haiku, senryu, haibun, essays, and book reviews. Pays $1.00 per haiku, $2.00 per haibun, and $5.00 per final printed page for essays; payment is made upon acceptance of the work. www.modernhaiku.org |
| Amaze: The Cinquain Journal Specializing in the form of poetry known as the cinquain. To learn the history visit the website and click on "The Cinquain Page." http://members.aol.com/acinquain |
| Frogpond A journal published by the Haiku Society of America, Frogpond is one of the most widely read English language haiku journals in the world today and receives about 20,000 submissions a year. More info available from their website www.hsa-haiku.org |
| Bear Creek Haiku Another haiku journal but a very interesting one. Write to: Ayaz Darl Nielsen, P.O. Box 3787, Boulder CO 80307 |
| Clark Street Review A bimonthly publication on the lookout for narrative and prose poems. Ray Foreman, PO Box 1377, Berthoud CO 80513 |
| Indefinite Space Leans toward experimental and avant-garde but according to their website "guidelines do not exist." www.indefinitespace.net |
| Inverted-A Horn Publishes traditional and metrical verse. Aya Katz, P.O. Box 267, Licking MO 65542. You may also read a brief review of this publication at the New Hope International |
| The Barefoot Muse Publishes formal and metrical verse. Editorial Deadlines are May 15th for the June issue and November 15th for the December issue. Might I add that I think this website is beautifully done. Easy to navigate and the artwork is breathtaking. www.barefootmuse.com |
| Generator Press Presents visual poetry along with other forms of contemporary textual and visual productions. www.generatorpress.com |
| Don't forget to read the soothing and somewhat mystical poetry of Illogical Muse's feature poet, William R. Ford, Jr. |
| "Innocence" By Rachel Sauve Website: http://www.myspace.com/a_dream_or_a_memory The flames blazed around their thighs, the heat reaching higher and higher. They all finally realized the mistake they had made, and that it was too late to turn back. The fire formed a ring around them, holding them in its trap. The screams and pleas for help didn't affect the doctor, whom stood on the outside watching with apathy. He had seen this occurrence countless times before, and knew that there were going to many more to come. This group burned throughout the night, their sins being released through the fumes. The bodies, after the flames died down, were left as ashes to build on the ground. The doctor spoke aloud to himself, �I really don't understand why so many people fail this test, and yet so many more continue to attempt to pass it. All that I ask is for a person of innocence. There behind me stands a line of people whom claim to have such a quality, but no one has made it through. The spirits have rejected each human that has stepped across the line...but each person just keeps trying. �I suppose it stands to say,� the doctor noted, �that quite a few human beings believes himself worthy of being innocent, but is blind when looking at himself and seeing his own flaws.� While he speaks, another group of people stand inside the ring of fire are crying out to their own God to be rescued. They do not realize that their own selfishness and over self-confidence is what keeps the fire burning around them. Your God cannot help you when you've defied Him all your life and then ask for His help when you've decided He has finally become important to you. He will let your soul die, as you had let His in your own heart. For days, people came and tested their innocence by walking across the line that the doctor had drawn. He had no idea that so many people thought they would make it through, or that so many people would fail. He began to realize the corruption of the human mind. The type of people who showed up varied. It included firemen, writers, students, assembly line workers, office workers, and even other doctors. It seemed that the occupation did not affect the type of person. Each type obviously had its own flaws. This made the doctor fearful for even himself. He decided that this was enough. He knew that if he didn't stop his experiment that he would soon get in trouble for murder, though he did no such thing. Never could he, either. He decided that this night was the last. After midnight he would pack up and note all that he had seen, and store it away for good. Near the end of the night, however, he noticed a difference in the line. He walked over to observe what was going on. His face twisted and his body got cold when he saw the group that was coming up next. They were children, a couple dozen of them. Their faces were serious yet playful. They stood in line patiently, waiting for their own turn. Some of the children even played games like cat's cradle and hopscotch while waiting. The doctor was deathly afraid. There was no way he could let the children test their own fate, they were too young. He couldn't risk their lives like that. He wasn't sure how to turn them away though, either. What was he to tell them? Instead, the doctor decided to pack his things and run right away. He didn't want to take part in any of it anymore. The line quickly shortened and the children's group was next. The doctor dropped his things and spun around as he heard one of them giggle. He watched them from afar. The fire still blazed from the previous people who tested their fate. �No!� The doctor shouted after them. He couldn't stand to see such a site. It was too late. The children stepped across the line together and then stood their still, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. The doctor wiped the sweat from his eyes and took a deep breath. He was mighty glad that the children were okay. Suddenly, he saw an ember float up into the night air. The doctor panicked and ran across the line in hopes of saving the child who stood near it. As he did, he felt his skin begin to warm. He felt the temperature rise rapidly around him and his heart began beating faster. He then realized what he had done, stepping across the line, and knew that this was his last day on Earth. Soon the doctor would be just another pile of dust, extracted from sin. A small girl from the group of children looked at the doctor, (who was now sitting on the ground), smiled, and walked toward him. He looked up at her, the tears in his wide eyes dissolving into the heat. He frowned as he looked up at her. He was sorry for all that he had done to so many people and sorry for all of everything that he had done throughout his own life. The little girl stuck her hand out to him, still smiling. The doctor, perplexed, was afraid to take her hand for his burning would harm her. Then he looked past her and saw that all of the other children were watching him. A blue glow began emerging from their bodies, almost as if their soul was being released. The doctor thought to himself, This is the answer to it all. Innocence is among the children, and only the children. They do not see the greed or the selfishness, they don't know any better. Their minds prevent the ugly world from coming in. They came here tonight to help me see this, but why they would care to do so I do not understand. He slowly took the girl's hand and felt a coolness in his heart. His entire body felt cooler. The feeling of his skin deteriorating finally went away. He was no longer burning. He smiled back at the girl, who had let go of his hand. �Why did you help me?� He asked her. �Because I don't know any better,� she replied as she turned away. |
| "Slowing Of Time"
By Sandra Hedin Time is slow, yet oh so fast The worst of times seem longer to last Can't let go, my mind is trapped Forgetting seems such an impossible task My own prison surrounds me again The darker side begins to dig in I am living, but not alive A machine that will function while the heart slowly dies I am awake, but barely aware So lost inside that I'm not really there I am defeated before I've begun Things just keep slipping, one by one..... I can breathe, I can seem calm I can pretend that nothing is wrong I can bite down through this wave of pain Try to be part of the world again A world of nothing but monotone shades Where everything different is left to degrade I am living, but not alive A machine that will function while the heart slowly dies I am awake, but barely aware So lost inside that I'm not really there I am defeated before I've begun Things just keep slipping, one by one..... I might function through every day Hold on to the side I want to display It seems there is a slowing of time A rock in the skin that continues to grind Time is fast, yet oh so slow Too much time for the doubt to grow..... |
| "Fantasies World"
By Sandra Hedin Mostly invisible, but I don�t always care Trying not to yell when I know it�s unfair I�ve fought to be just who I am Making mistakes when I let myself bend Twisting and trying to be better then me Reminding myself only I set me free It�s just me in my little world Letting fantasies fingers uncurl The world is nothing but icy abuse I don�t want to let it tighten the noose I�ve gritted teeth and gotten through Now I�m just waiting for anything new I must slip off the pain of the past If my sanity�s expected to last The battle will rage and never cease Only alone will I find some release I must heal up and build up the guard I want the simple, but find the hard It�s just me in my little world Letting fantasies fingers uncurl The world is nothing but icy abuse I don�t want to let it tighten the noose I�ve gritted teeth and gotten through Now I�m just waiting for anything new I am here, but must go there When caring too much becomes too much to bare The truth is something that�s hard to ignore Biting and grinding into the sore It�s ok; it will heal up again As long as I don�t let too much of it in |
| "In The Crappy Car" By Heath Borgeson He said let�s ride It�s obvious you want me My parents Give me lots of money I bought a brand new car I�ll give you anything If you give me Parts of you She says no I don�t make A lot of money But what I make Is mine I want Flowers in the morning Followed by days Full of laughs and sunshine Not mutual design Until then I�ll Drive my own car Or walk to get by I saw her driving past me Her car was loud And ugly But she Was so divine In a minute she was gone Off to find The things of dreams And the happiness We all need In her crappy car |
| "The Tiger Dream I Never Had" By Steve Demoss If I could breathe together with her I would blow her out like a candle, I would. The smoke would fill the room and we would watch it make balloons out of itself, floating off, bleeding out the windows we had cracked for oxygen. Air. The essence of life. Why do I inhale and exhale a poison that kills me, rather than allows me to survive? And what is survival? Is it attempting to find a happiness that never will exist, or maybe never has? I am the mouse that attacks the trap for cheese, but now I am caught. I am trapped. But at the same time I am also surviving. |
| Book: �Inside The Outside: An Anthology Of Avant-Garde American Poets�
Edited by Roseanne Ritzema Reviewed by Amber Rothrock Several months ago, I received a book in the mail for my review. The book was titled �Inside The Outside: An Anthology Of Avant-Garde American Poets.� Sounds intriguing, I thought, I�ll take a look at it. Then I put it on a shelf and forgot about it. Time passed and I knew the only way I�d be able to get it done was to make it a part of Illogical Muse. So I finally read it and these are my thoughts. The book contains thirteen well known poets such as Eric Greinke and Lyn Lifshin. Each one of them has enough poems included in the collection to give the reader insight into the poet�s style and, sometimes, even his life. I believe that makes this book a great resource for newcomers. Many of the poems I�ve read in these pages had me itching to know more about their creators. I also like the way each poet is introduced with a brief paragraph about his or her style. Overall, the book is enlightening and enjoyable and I believe that is because it brings together such an eclectic mix of avant-garde poetry. It has something for everyone. |
| BOOK REVIEW |
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| "The Harp Of Eros" By Suzanne Harvey Your heart is no coarse vessel To snatch in hunger from the shelf But a cameo carved by a craftsman Whose touch told him magic lies In a finely tuned fingertip Plucking from a filament the chord of love That kneads a world Into the bread of life. |
| "The Coroner's Report" By Suzanne Harvey Our investigation disclosed no sharply etched memories True she did dislike duets Abhorred skating in pairs Preferred the ball machine to a partner on the courts Always teed off alone Single handed her sloop at sunset She jogged on abandoned beaches and walkways declared unsound Cycled the back paths only Hiked unmarked trails Spread her sleeping bag beside seldom visited streams While others honed the flutter kick Rounded an arc in their back stroke She plunged into the trough at the center Where the present enters a conduit with no exit. |
| "Family Tradition"
By Brian Mayer Death did not easily drift over his body Like the misting of a finely manicured lawn Covered by the dew of an early spring morning Instead it had left him ravaged and beaten He lost every round Never a need to go to the score card His battered body still lying on the canvas He had surrendered weeks prior Waving that white flag of defeat Punching the clock, no overtime today Yet never telling anyone that the fires that once Burned so bright Had long been extinguished by the tears of regret No one ever saw the expiration date Stamped to the sole of his left foot I had spent my time looking through sentimental eyes When I should have used the critical lens of life I held his hand While we spoke of a field of tigers And when he smiled at me We both know his time had come Don�t let anyone tell you he went easily Just a kiss on the cheek and it was done And don�t be fooled that it was all for the best Congratulations for a life of dignity and grace I took on the responsibility and signed the papers Tears dripping onto the hospital form Truly believing that our boat was now adrift Destined to crash against the red reefs of life Without a compass for guidance Without our Captain who offered hope And I carry this cross upon me Every moment of every day Until that fateful day arrives when I am able to pass this burden down to my son |
| "French Doors"
By Brian Mayer It could have been yesterday Yet it was decades ago My collective self refuses to forget That is was a spring day If only it was like any other day Yet Nancy had an appointment to keep That would never need to be Scheduled again I remember standing in the kitchen Or was it the living room I was somewhere in the house The same one I was born and raised in The Brooklyn home we could have lived in forever When the phone rang Just the usual ring and I took the call that Changed our lives in ways I cannot even begin to explain We never discuss that day Words of healing or sorrow are not exchanged But I clearly remember sitting on the hallway floor Leaning up against the closed French doors Head in my hands crying for my wife, for myself For our still born son I still think about those French doors from time to time |
| �Returning From Winter Walk�
By Paul F. Wolf When I set out at mid-afternoon I was happy with the thirst of a fresh journey, seeing snow on barren limbs cry at the sight of the sun. Glancing upward, I felt its warmth wrapping me in blankets of security as I tramped along, rubber soles squeaking on moist ground, occasionally interrupted by the sudden snap of fallen and frozen branches. Brushing against dried flowers, disintegrating in a shower of dust, an inner warmth engulfed me as the golden comfort of tall colored swamp grass leaned with the weight of yesterday�s snow. Hidden from invader�s perspective, steam puffed from my mouth breathing in winter�s hushed atmosphere. But now it�s near sunset and bleakness reigns as the slightly moistened earth prepares to submerge into nighttime, the day�s dauntless predator, the red sun seeming cruel in announcing its retreat. The wind, now lonely, trickles past a few stubborn, clinging leaves, their flippant movement a contrast to the silent sky. Blackbirds call as they swoop past trees whitened on one side by sticky snow, their sounds as desolate as narrow twigs, encased in ice. Retracing my steps, I see rabbit prints, squirrel and deer muddied, brown, empty, half-melted punctures, while yellowed weeds pull at my pant legs, pleading against the coming darkness. my tired legs move faster, away from the woods, as I think of a fire, me before it in a basket chair, wrapped in a comforter, warming my toes, reading a book, as I contemplate another day. |
| In the past, I have been published in Snake Nation Review, Puerto del Sol, Other Voices, StoryQuarterly, Sou-Wester, The MacGuffin and as one of the winners in a contest issue of The Georgetown Review. My story �Maria the Witch� was published and nominated by Eureka Literary Magazine for an Illinois Arts Council Award in Fiction.
I�ve also had stories appear in, Wisconsin Review, Lynx Eye, The Bridge, flyaway and The William and Mary Review where I was a review award winner. I have been published in Chiron Review, Left Curve, Pangolin papers, The Chaffin Journal, Mobius, The Chrysalis Reader, Asylum Annual and 27 other publications. In 2001, Birch Book Press released my first novel, �A Punk In Gallows America,� under the name of P.W. Fox. It was selected by the Small Press Review for being one of the better small press novels published that year. I have also published a book of 47 previously published short stories titled, �Varied Images: The Stories of Paul F. Wolf.� I am an active member of the Chicago Writers Association. I write articles on creative writing for CWA. I also was selected the winner of the CWA poetry/short story writing contest. See www.chicagowrites.org |
| Album: �Still Searching� from Senses Fail
Reviewed by: Amber Rothrock It was a typical pay day and I was searching the CD rack at Wal-mart for my favorite bands. I�d already snagged �Cannibal,� the killer release from Static-X. Korn�s new one wasn�t in stores yet and I didn�t intend to buy Linkin Park �s �Minutes To Midnight� without hearing more of the album. Alas, pickings were slim folks. But I�d had a shitty week and I wasn�t leaving without some new tunes. So, even though my patience was lacking, I continued my search. What attracted me to Senses Fail was their album cover (see below). It looked off-the-wall and hard rockish. Plus a band called Senses Fail who has an album titled �Still Searching� has gotten angst written all over it. And that�s my kind of music! So I bought it, thinking, Ah, it�s a piece of crap. Took it home, half-assed listened to it and still thought, Ah, it�s a piece of crap. Then I took it to work with me and actually listened to the whole thing this time. Okay, so it wasn�t crap. In fact, it was starting to grow on me. Especially the last track, �The Priest And the Matador.� I�ve listened to the album several times since and continue to find ways the songs apply to me and my life. Although I�m sure the boys have their own meanings, the music can be understood on a universal level. Nielsen�s emotionally powerful lyrics combine perfectly with his band mates� head banging beats and spectacular guitar riffs. |
| ALBUM REVIEW |
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| Track Listing:
1.The Rapture 2. Bonecrusher 3. Sick Or Sane (Fifty For A Twenty) 4. Can�t Be Saved 5. Calling All Cars 6. Shark Attack 7. Still Searching 8. To All The Crowded Rooms 9. Lost And Found 10. Everyday Is A Struggle 11. All The Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues 12. Negative Space 13. The Priest And The Matador THE PRIEST AND THE MATADOR Here I lie I'm staring at Clouds in shapes of Dogs and cats I hear a woman Start to yell "Oh dear God I Think he fell " CHORUS I'm the arrow Shot straight to hell From the bow of William Tell My body lies Kissing the ground Like a cross turned upside down A priest is rushing To my side Begins to read me My last rites Father you're too late My faith is weak So won't you save your half-hearted speech REPEAT CHORUS A man bends down and says, "Son we're gonna get through this one take my hand and let us pray." I scream, "Please get the fuck away." REPEAT CHORUS The ambulance is singing As cops push back the crowd I start to take my last breath As blood pours out my mouth The medics walking my way I think this could be it I hear 'em start to state, "The time of death is half past six." STILL SEARCHING I can't believe it's been a year Since I kissed my fears On their salty lips And said to them I love you all I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders For 20 years and look at me now I've got something to say About the last 12 months I've lived I'm not the same kid I was when I was younger I just thought you should know I take a pill every day to help me deal with life And oh my God, I've lost control I stare at accidents in a sick attempt To feel at all I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders For 20 years and look at me now I've got something to say About the family that I've lost I hope my mother and my father think That they raised a healthy boy Who needs the help of a shrink To even leave the house? And oh my God, I've lost control I stare at accidents in a sick attempt To feel at all I'm not the same kid I was when I was younger I just thought you I just thought you should know I'm not the same kid I was when I was younger I just thought you I just thought you should know I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders For 20 years and look at me now And now And now I'm finding a way to forget everything that I know I can't believe it's been a year Since I kissed my fears On their salty lips And said to them I love you all Don't ask, just follow Repeat and swallow Don't ask, just swallow them down your throat . . . My best friend is a man, with a lab coat and a grin I hold my shaking hand and he gives me medicine It almost makes me feel at home But they slowly steal my soul I tell him I still feel alone "Don't worry someday I promise you will feel whole" And oh my God, I've lost control Of the only thing in life I had a hold of . . . Lyrics to The Priest And The Matador and Still Searching are the sole property of Senses Fail and are displayed here for review purposes only. You can check out all the latest information on the band, shop for merchandise and hear songs from the album by going to www.sensesfail.com |
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| "Doing Laundry"
By Laurence Overmire To be a serious poet Is to continually face The battering hand of rejection No value placed on Words and guts spilled In ceremony Onlookers indifferent to the slaughter Toothpicks fingered between molar and gum A burp to signal satisfaction In dark rooms, feet propped up Life sinks into the crevices between cushions Voices from nowhere tumbling through a Rinse cycle, drowning out The silence. |
| "Meesha Katz Hiraldo"
By Carlos Hiraldo Grey with white highlights, fluffy hair Meesha alerts her big yellow eyes at any sudden movement from me or harsh sound from outside the window of my first floor studio apartment. Not even one year old, Meesha is the last, best hope this country has when the army of bearded Arabs in white traditional dress and turbans, flip-flop their way across the deserts of Arizona, Nevada, and New Mexico. Having been allowed through old Mexico, no questions asked, their bayoneted rifles will point at defenseless Humvees. Meesha will rise, arched and hissing. She will spring upon Osama, shave him bloody with razor claws. She will flay, fillet them all back to the Stone Age. For now, she lies in bed, yawning, licking her paws, awaiting battle. Carlos's book "Segregated Miscegenation" is now available from Routledge |
| "Violence"
By John Sweet this quiet rain just before dawn and the distant waves of freeway traffic the world without shape without color and can you find god in a dark room or even the sleeping body of your lover? do you believe that either of them cares for you? remember your name left unspoken is only one form of silence the tiny bodies found left behind in plastic bags are another words have no weight no substance think about andrea yates drowning her five children what would you say to her if you could? why would it matter? the only truth is action Visit his websites www.bleedinghorse.blogspot.com http://blog.myspace.com/bleedinghorsedenied |
| "Bird's Eye"
By Gary Scheinoha Don't know what you've heard from your perch in the trees, but for some of us at least, literature is more than a buzzword spread among flies, spawned/spurned like a germ between writer and reader. It's the finest of silks spun out of a pen, enveloping these thoughts in a cocoon of words until they hatch into a Monarch flitting across the page. |
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