Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
The Poetry of Nathaniel S. Rounds
It with great esteem that we welcome back one of our regular contributors to
Mel BrakE Press, Nataniel S. Rounds. He work is breathless..
NATHANIEL S. ROUNDS BIO:
Nathaniel S. Rounds writes from the tallest eyesore east of Montreal, where even the bed bugs take the elevator.
Mel BrakE Press, Nataniel S. Rounds. He work is breathless..
NATHANIEL S. ROUNDS BIO:
Nathaniel S. Rounds writes from the tallest eyesore east of Montreal, where even the bed bugs take the elevator.
He has been published in Down in the Dirt, Melusine, Centrifugal Eye, and many other fine publications. His chapbooks
are available from Fowlpox Press.
Gabriella
in The shade of The Wood is Fed To The Applause of The Evening
1.
I found
you looking at the tatty canvas
You
brought it to the counter
I
surmised without giving you the stare-down
That
you were in your fifties
Better
preserved than Lenin
Simple
black dress
Blond
hair not frizzed out from decades of dyeing
You
must have been born with the gold
And not
in any hurry to relinquish it in favour of silver
The
canvas was a mess
An
abstract oil called Babi Yar/Schrödinger's
Cat
Painted
on Russian linen stretched over a bone frame
I
showed you the odd little treasure tucked between frame slat and
linen
A
folded sheet of foolscap with typewritten story
With a
75 dpi halftone taken from a Pears Shilling
Cyclopaedia
Of
various types of vermin
It
tells a story of a brave woman
Named
Gabriella Eventide
She was
left a small pension by her husband
A
farmer who had the misfortune of being trapped beneath his tractor
Mr.
Orton Eventide was brave enough
To
write a cursory will on the underside of the tractor’s fender
Thereupon
Gabriella used her small income to assist women in distress
In this
particular story
Gabriella
comes to the aid of the five daughters of Zelophehad
Who
were desperately trying to escape gigantic bed bugs
Dressed
in regency pumps and powdered wigs
As they
descended a wooden ladder
Connecting
tenement buildings to sky
And as
I paraphrased the words you read it and nodded
And
murmur words like Ingrid Berman
And
send me into dream world with that air of Arpège
And
then you ask for the price of the picture
Which
is cheap since it needs repair
And you
reach for the coins in your leather purse
And
tell me your name: Gabriella
2.
Gabriella
Eventide
I’m
no longer feeling it
Fleet
footed ascent up Promise Hill
Tenement
houses crumbling like Old Testament names
We
broke a chaw of clemency and fed it to the crows
Who
turned a leafless tree into a forest of derisive laughter
Gabriella
I hear
your presence on the radio
Gabriella
I feel
your dress of coarse white linen
Against
the back of my hand
On the
lifeless stage at the grange hall
Where
shadows on the torn, green blinds
Substitute
for members in an audience
And
where coughing in the radiator
Serves
as applause
3.
Your
Honour
It’s
not all my fault
I mean
Gabriella
knocked me out with a feather
After
plucking it from a duck’s behind
Worrying
the words out of
“Engine,
engine, number nine
Sliding
down Chicago line
When she's polished she will shine
Engine, engine, number nine”
When she's polished she will shine
Engine, engine, number nine”
Until
it reached a fevered pitch
Like
pine sol over an open fire
Made by
climbing the tallest tree
And
don’t you know
For a
lumberjack’s daughter
She
could brew more
Than a
cup of joe
The Poetry of Canaan Massie
CANAAN MASSIE BIO:
My
name is Canaan Massie. I am 18 years old and I would like to become a
published author.
Nightmares
Of Paradise
What
does an angel dream,
If
such a feat is so possible?
Of
life on earth?
Or
of the paradise in which he resides?
And
what of demons?
Consumed
in flames,
Does
slumber ever seduce Satan?
It
must.
If
so, He must
dream of heaven,
Of
when he harbored angelic ailerons,
Of
when he was his own sworn enemy,
Of
unattainable paradise.
As
Gabriel as his Angel of Death,
And
God his own enemy's creator,
Satan
dreams not,
For
He has Nightmares Of Paradise.
Envy
They
say envy turns you green,
But
for me, I disagree.
Envy
is red,
The
color of romance.
I
envy your shirt,
It
constantly gets to caress your body.
I
envy your cigarettes,
Constantly
at your lips.
I
envy the words that you speak,
For
they are much more beautiful than I.
I
envy the ground you walk upon,
For
I want to be the only thing pleading at your feet.
I
envy your phone.
Constantly
at your fingertips,
Caressing
your cheek.
You
speak into it,
And
I hear "I love you."
I
envy whomever lurks on the other side.
I
envy your pillows,
Because
I know you cuddle with them when I am not there.
I
envy your necklace,
For
it is constantly closer to your heart than I'll ever be.
I
envy the medicine that you take,
For
I want to be what takes your pain away.
You
tell your tales,
And
I am envious of your past.
Mostly
because I am absent from your memories.
They
say envy turns you green,
But
for me, I disagree.
Envy
has no color.
Only
silhouettes.
Heaven's
Mockery
O
star...
How
you mock me.
Away
from earthly oppressions.
Safe,
is thee,
Hung
home in heaven.
I
envy your distance,
From
this place we call earth.
You
feel no resistance,
No
pain, and no hurt.
For
your father, an immortal,
And
your mother owns all.
You
feel no torture,
Only
wished upon when you fall.
O
star,
How
you mock me.
How
dost thee shine so bright?
And
if thou art blue,
You
still emulate light.
The Poetry of Sy Roth
SY ROTH BIO:
He is a retired school administrator living on Long Island. After spending years in the wilderness of work, he finally has time to think and write. He has published in Visceral Uterus and two works to-be-published in Amulet in August and September. He has also had several essays published in Newsday.
Penn
Station
Penn
Station entrance,
he leans
ungracefully
smudges
the wall.
crowds
pass him,
rheumy
eyes hidden behind heavy
droopy
lids,
visible
parts twinkling with chicanery.
his
crooked mien sings dissimulation.
no
pleading signs bedeck him,
weighted
only with deflated balloon-dreams
draped
around his neck
hissing
long dissipated air
into the
ether.
boxes of
sadness
closet
him.
unkept
promises,
exigencies
cram the
valleys of his being
buried
in river muck
of
glacier-gouged pasts, a
substrata
of his flaccid dreams.
no
entreaties,
only
surrender,
trapped
in his mind-doors.
sounds
of the city
girdle
him;
he
unembraced.
Idle
Water Thoughts
they hack
through the earth’s core
machines
biting it,
slipping
their long pipes into the aquifer
squirrling
through thin layers to find water
mussing
lush patches of her
lusting for
her water.
I’m
thirsty.
a dog pees
against the cobblestones,
its owner
tapping his foot
whistling a
you-don’t-see-me tune
I
conjectured—
at the
seemingly endless flow, and
the dog’s
ahhhhh grin
as his
urine burden splashes.
an idle
thought wiggles in
traipsing
through for a playful second--
I see a
Tyrannosaurus Rex behind my eyes
and I watch
him pee
lifting his
huge leg,
evacuating
his bladder--
how much
water would he produce?
a lake?
fill a
cairn?
I think.
I
imagined the waters of
millions of Tyrrani
filling
reservoirs.
I watch
their water seep into the soil
and leak
into yellow cisterns for millennia.
perhaps the
waters of those gothic beasts
nourish us
today,
we being
blessed
by the
nurturing waters of the gargantuas.
My thirst
slaked.
final
observation--
that dog
scratches at the ground with its hind paws,
marches
snappily behind its owner
unconcerned
that he could
be
hydrating future generations
the corers,
as well, still pierce
unwittingly.
I laugh.
Love
Song
hate and
love side-by-side,
vexing
each other.
a
capricious love song
mutilates
their heart-places.
chaos
rings in
rolling peals
creates
phantasms that Hiroshimize walls.
silently
they muster
glaring
eyes
and
shuffle their shoulders
in
opposite directions.
frightened
children,
victims
of a lilting threnody--
in
search of specters,
entombed
spirits,
and
purring witches that
dip-stick
into dreams
stirring
a cauldron’s brew,
of
gossamer conflicts.
and
goggle-eyed black cats
extricated
from sealed walls.
perverse
confessions follow
like
rats gnawing through walls.
they are
dressed in gloomy grieving vestments
swaying
to the melancholic whining
for a
lost master.
spent,
they
slink away.
Ebon
Wall
black wall
monumentally immense,
solid ebon relic of horrors
balled into its inky interior.
impermeable blackness,
darker than the grave
inviting long beginnings
and artlessly quick endings.
head flinches with the trigger
a dreadful scowl splashes their faces
as they slip to the ground.
I live there,
exist on a millennium-long,
bone-weary blotch of earth.
borne away at times
in liquid moments,
to return, and wait
to be prodded erect in front of her
bespattered wall
smelling of iron
comingled with chlorine,
overshadowed by the smell of
disquietude—
no windows to peer out of
no windows in
a permanent black hole
impervious.
electric sense of expectancy
static charges ever present.
howls of incredulity
vibrate the air turbulently like a
tsunami
a tectonic movement of the plates of
the earth
shifting and grinding against one
another
like frenzied lovers
and I rest without expectation of
climax
feeling it.
a red hot eminence sits within,
buried deeply,
a hand will eventually drag me in.
Black
Nuggets
unsuppressed
desire and
cloudy
intentions
reside
in the brutish nightmares
of
Lucifer’s dreams.
they
swim in the ebon cauldron
as
the witches stir an unbridled brew
mixing
in a thimbleful of this and that,
a
pricked pinch of blood,
a
miniscule inky dot,
then
cast spells
loosing
black nuggets into
in
the soup of beings.
mole-like,
these nuggets
dig,
then roar to the surface with the
wooly
ambition a freight train.
they
will bear their fruit in those
bifurcated-genome-sequenced
beings
who
live awash in their own egos.
that
dark seed,
gees
and haws them indiscriminately.
once
hidden
behind
a scrim of verisimilitude,
they
fly out of a twelfth story window
and
end with a splat.
The
quagmire
the blue bubble
glumly sinks
beneath the weight of
insatiable beings who
consume
rather than build.
fading agate
teeter-totters
under the weight of their
puerile inanities.
few saviors
buried among them--
she, the builder
with trowels in one hand,
weapons in the other
willing to defend her creations.
he, possessor of a world
which began
as a big bang of words
clapped together like chalk erasers
and a
willingness to risk all
to keep tomes spun gold
with words
from the funeral pyre where
nestled in their folds
truths lay in wait.
until then,
the quagmire
is our siren.
Nabobs
of Illusion
nabobs of
illusion--
these nabis
pontificate,
exhort,
sing their
own praises
strew
wishes upon the wind
like Johnny
Appleseeds
creating
groves and verdant fields.
they appear
profound,
these
gurus,
nested atop
mountains
contemplating
their eternity.
bogeymen
who lack insight
hide behind
their truths,
freeze
their declarations of right
into ice
cream treats
to be
licked clean
by hungry
masses.
conceive
ideas in cigar-smoked laboratories,
inventing
treacly mixtures
concocted
to whet appetites,
urge their
poster-carrying seals
to bark at
the dangling treats,
fin-clapping
din filling carnival tents.
scared
muammin abdicate
like
fleshless musselmen and
pay homage
cramming
prayers into wall cracks.
nabis
engender fear,
flouncing
minds
in their
whipped wind.
The
quagmire
the blue bubble
glumly sinks
beneath the weight of
insatiable beings who
consume
rather than build.
fading agate
teeter-totters
under the weight of their
puerile inanities.
few saviors
buried among them--
she, the builder
with trowels in one hand,
weapons in the other
willing to defend her creations.
he, possessor of a world
which began
as a big bang of words
clapped together like chalk erasers
and a
willingness to risk all
to keep tomes spun gold
with words
from the funeral pyre where
nestled in their folds
truths lay in wait.
until then,
the quagmire
is our siren.
The Poetry of Kislay Chauhan
Kislay Chauhan BIO:
My poems are under the terms of emotion that are generally related to
every person in their lives. All of sudden there are azimuthal travel on
the carpet of deep tranquil mind and the togetherness of heart also.
Most of my poems are collectively touchy and thinkable about self. As
you would go through deeper in the poems, there will be much soulful
touch for you through the terrain of my words and the world of the
diligent feeling of love attachment to life.
- " Afternoon Desert "
Tides in absorbed sunlight, dry sand desert
Whitish glare, seeking mirror boats
Where time is dried, moments sweat
Music in flames, days on the roots
Dewdrops of morning search shadow
Where sun is more leaned, cleaned but hard
The outsized branches, curvy eyes of leaves
Stony feet the sharp fingers digging surface
The labors with spades mining the place
Small spiders with sewing tensing wounds
Blocking airs impelling to breath high
With black and white scenes and sky
Turning years of hooks and scissors without rain
Striving bones, sore throats of birds and beasts
And then steady rocks of bronzed silence
Little weeds the waiters of years
And no one dares, no one hears
Only the tails of trees bounding water
Spongy blue ribs spread out of chest
The boats only mirages peeping far away
Forever a mirage alone never gets any meet
Dazzling waves decorate them hanging mirrors
The last storm all forgot but still the signs there
Desert fencing borders far of the crowds
Where only cheerful nights smile
And afternoon songs are tired unto evenings
When all the stars dine together
On sand-sheet, sand with resting eyes
- " An Old Age "
A mechanical heart, desolated
Standing solemn around weaving silky water
Water of eyes, inveterate healer
On grass of sorrow by wind directing ways
Lifted breath burden on the lungs
Frightened gazes of nerves hugging heart
Dripping sights of memory in front of legs
The day of last heartbeat of his words
Dissolving in fog of all directions,
Peeping shadows of memories from cloak
Someone almost lost the grace of life
And somewhere pulses thunder to get out
Rotten skin with blooming sights and spirit
The layers of irregular breath stiffened
Where every valley is not straight to cross
Distinguished desires without any complaints
Certain limping stick in hand for way
Every step, summing up a journey
Dull head, digging shoulders, wide glasses
Which seems something binocular badges
Lost quartz of teeth, shrugging expression
Occasional smiles filling lonely times
He just needs help to cross that road
And lakes of sorrow and solitude
And listening last seasonal singing of birds
Every step with folding calm days in arms
Preaching eyes of life need assistance of love
An old man carrying belief of life, belief of life
- " Seashore Witness "
Slowing prints, waves take a walk
With numbed faces for one end
Once again looping fear was formed there
Over still eyes of snails by offshore wind
Some striding crabs around coastline
Tear-stains the patches by seaside
Along wet sand I would like to retire
Stillness of darker truth and my life
The misty colors in straight sun strings
Inaudible songs of seagulls and seabirds
A misty silence, a moving street
The drops steal my back footprints
Two lonely rooms, my soul, my shadow
Over and over, many times through my breath
Thick peeling off earth’s surface under feet
Setting up a dream-house through seashore
A single dream, floating with every ray
Rising different gleams, different dreams
Over and over till end to end
A breezing ghost, with siren sound by ears
And in far away blue waves
Binders of my breath—
Many things unsolved there spread stones
The diaphanous destinations change stations
With every tide, with every wobble
A dried log of life witness there from years
Broken both sides and dubious eyes
That was the last meeting with that log
At that last night, when dreadful wave came
Then all witnesses were ended forever
- " Face of The Nature "
Slowing prints, waves take a walk
With numbed faces for one end
Once again looping fear was formed there
Over still eyes of snails by offshore wind
Some striding crabs around coastline
Tear-stains the patches by seaside
Along wet sand I would like to retire
Stillness of darker truth and my life
The misty colors in straight sun strings
Inaudible songs of seagulls and seabirds
A misty silence, a moving street
The drops steal my back footprints
Two lonely rooms, my soul, my shadow
Over and over, many times through my breath
Thick peeling off earth’s surface under feet
Setting up a dream-house through seashore
A single dream, floating with every ray
Rising different gleams, different dreams
Over and over till end to end
A breezing ghost, with siren sound by ears
And in far away blue waves
Binders of my breath—
Many things unsolved there spread stones
The diaphanous destinations change stations
With every tide, with every wobble
A dried log of life witness there from years
Broken both sides and dubious eyes
That was the last meeting with that log
At that last night, when dreadful wave came
Then all witnesses were ended forever
- " Heart Of Wood "
Somewhere a box filled emotions
Of wood, built round bit for life
Different cherishes keeping in
Supplying sets of dreams’ belief
A lock of ego, anger and hate
With key of help, kindness and love
The sides varnished with tender
A sort of wood flinching in fear
Slanted, corners of silence, spiritual
Stiffing to ground, burns in fire
Fire of love, hurt and desires
Wrapping cloths of seasons boiling
Lonely narrow boxes...
Strange boards made of wood
Devouring colors of surfaces
Edges broken, steeping to ground
An old tomb, with torn boundary
A monument lasts for a breath
Breath that unlocks lock, loneliness
Wooden box, clouds, rains and keys
Sunlight heals it up, an artifact
Parallel conditions, stars run above
May be one day, we put it as monument
Lonely, only memory of old swarms
When it used to have everything
Heart of wood, now in a museum
Motionless, a show for strangers
Having life, all of wood, to be painted
Or to be burned to warm some
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