Fantasy From Afar

 

Sometimes I am certain that you

are exactly the same person as me,

but in a different form, as if

we were constructed from

the same spirit, but inserted

 

into different body shapes,

with different parents, the same

shade and saturation, but contrasting

colors, separated by mountains,

freeways, and missed connections

 

and one day we will stroll down

the same sidewalk, and great

vibrations of heat and illumination

will reverberate in the air, and

all the pigeons will feel vertigo

 

and crush their tiny heads

against the trees, and a sad sight

it will be to see five to ten

pigeon carcasses strewn along the

ground. But as we grow nearer,

 

your mirror image of myself

opens a hole in the clouds,

and now the trees are splitting open,

shafts of light are emanating

from the cracks in the sidewalk,

 

and you continue to advance closer

to me, because we  had been

waiting for this moment for

our entire lives. And yet I wish that

I had brought along with me

 

a ring, a golden watch, a shining

diamond, even a small flower

then I look to the ground and

I see one of the pigeons,

its eyes barely open, uttering

 

small, pleading chirps, its

wings flapping helplessly,

and then I see that you are

looking at the pigeon too.

So I lower to my knees,

 

and I scoop the little bird into

my hand, and I present it to you

like a goblet of spring water,

a vase of daffodils, (or maybe

like roses?) and you take the pigeon

 

cradling it in your arms like a

newborn child, and I see a

million questions in your eyes,

questions that don’t need to be asked,

questions that don’t need be answered, and

 

as I envision this fantasy, I inhale the

rain in the morning. The water on the

chair is soaking through my

pants. A crow lands on the table,

 

I try to brush it away, and I

realize that my cheek has been

resting on my hand, and now

my hand feels numb.

 

By: Dante Yardas

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Dear Junior Year

She is unblemished,
As they say…

But blemished she is: Blemished is her mind,
Her inner eye.
His snaky kingdom, an intruder to her peaceful bliss, Mourns the mere chance it did not take To be a globalist movement under her blithe skin.
His every will, willing to appease, His every word, sweet nectar to mine ear.
And inner ease be his tremulous desire, That which she brings not into his life, But smothers with her accusations so.
She is not what I am, divine perfection of a woman.
This, misconceived, is not what I am but what she is.

As she hurts him so, she sees it not,
For her selfishness overpowers her being.. Draws Confidence For her selfishness eats her whole. He sees not that she hurts him so, Still ignorant pertaining to detecting evil. But the lights, they falter, And eyes strain to adjust.
And his cheek bones, defined by sorrow, Are jagged Not unlike my
heart.


He knows not what damage she has done,
For broken he is and the fault accredited to her.
For her grubby fingernails have defaced my poor, sweet angel..
Dare I call him so His innocence she robbed, if he ever was innocent at all.
I know not what damage he has done,
For broken I am and the fault accredited to him.
But repress I my sorrow, endeavoring to cushion him. Attempting to heal his feeble heartbeat.
May I save him if I sweep aside the wool Shorn Off His Back?

By: Tenaya Berndsen

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Vialpando

The mock-orange tree
looks pale as the flattened scar,
the heath upon which the heathen
screams.
The bough’s extent
graces the cropped and furrowed sky
of cloud and celestial smiles.
Dusk,
as the wail
clips pigeon wings overhead.
The winter breath a
silent re v
                        er
                                i
                                       e…

Top orange flame a hanging amber drop upended like the slaked mind drunk on hyacinth monkshood, heather, blossoms- opened- a jaw with whiskers, the honeysuckle. A sweeter smell against curlequed rubbings, rubbings conceived by the skull, the pale stretch of glossed-over belly: the woman, barren. Autumnal flesh never tasting spring but always chased by winter-
-Skoll, a raking claw to dispose of the blossom which knew no scent but citrus and hunger, no breath. Breathless. He stands beside her, greying hair and hands against her pelvis, she looks to sea in the growing dark. Her eyes a selkie’s greenish hue and knuckles white with hunger for what could have been. What was? What spoken spell beneath her branches could propose the blood and not the name, this woman with no heir.
No bosom full and glowing, pressed upon by the tasseled heads of fog and bitter smells from the locusts upon mock orange petals, fallen without aid of air to glide. She smiles. Her paling, nakedness exposed- the cold ripped her o f h e r b l o o m and took whatever happened, -in a night above the sea, beneath strains of stars- away.
Her branches trailing into dark, her squarish chin quivering as she grows bent by the winter wind that bites her heels. He calls her back, afraid, hands soaked in blood and nails caked with soil. She has already withered. He leaves a mock-orange leaf to seed.

By: Hannah Malik

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Inhale

[box]

I have arrived.  I am home.

I am clay.  Shape me. Press me.

I arrive and feel thumbprints, a potter’s wheel spinning on its axis.  Meet a stone on the street, I will swallow it.  Smooth—weighted–past my lips.  Esophagus clenches.  Take it down.  You have pressed heavy gold coins deep into my firm.  I carry them.  I carry you.  I lift myself.

I am repulsive.  I am radiant.  Push your fingers into my body and out my buoyant heart.

I am clay.  Shape me.  Press me.

My self,  She  is box-shaped.  I am made to hold your treasure.  Place your ball of thread, your brass lungs, your purple-bruised eyelids into me.  I am the moment before a breath.  I am a glint of lemon sun.  Do not look at me.  I can only be tasted.  I carry these things within and surround.  I carry them.  I carry you.

I have arrived.  Shape me.

 

By: Alina Pontius[/box]

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Spring

[box]
I whisper at the growing spring,
where she was talking to a garden dog
and were she was seen wearing a blue hat,
when butterflies cried,
and one by one,
fell to the ground.

No joy is in this high western skies,
where the glowing blue moon went,
leaving us in darkness,
frozen.

Here,
as the morning sun sparkles upon I,
who never more thought of time,
thoughts flood my mind,
of the moments when I was restrained
by the unbeatable fact of death.

Funny,
how the summer noon star fast grows-up
as love flies in a little girl’s heart
like twirling music
that lives in the silent rain.
The rain that falls lightly on the blue hat;
that lays beside the owner
of the garden dog
in this whispering spring.

By: Eleonora Beran-Jahn
[/box]

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Traveller

Have you ever driven your car—to the middle of nowhere, just

to see how lonely you could feel with your knuckles white

against the steering wheel? You don’t even think about it, you

only worry about how fast you’re going, and that even though

you’re going 80, you still can’t help but feel that

the world is

spinning

slower

than it

should.

 

It’s okay, you know, to feel like your lungs can’t find

the air you desire, or if your eyes sting back with hate, or

sometimes, as often as we wish, with love. It’s completely

fine to want to scream until you can’t remember what silence is.

 

It’s deafening.

Maybe you’ve never known the feeling of someone else

piecing out your every being, or telling your secrets until

you’re positive there’s nothing left to hide. Maybe you’ve

never heard another person cry like a poisonous drain, like

seeing someone’s heart break right in front of you.

 

About an hour and a half away from here, so far from here, I

fell in love with the toxic scent of being alive. An hour and

thirty fucking minutes from here, I fell in love with the

roughness of clenched fists, and the wind blowing against

my face like I never even stood a chance, like the world

wasn’t supposed to be spinning faster or slower, like

the world wasn’t even supposed to be spinning

at all.

 

By Caitlin Plathe

My name is Caitlin Plathe and I am a 17-year-old high school student at MOC-Floyd Valley High School in a small town in Iowa. I’ve been an avid reader and writer since I was a little kid, and I honestly can’t imagine doing anything else. Recently, this summer, I was accepted and went to a two-week writing and cultural exchange program at the University of Iowa, which to be quite honest, changed my life. I’m a better writer, and person, because of it. 

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Afternoon

I rest my trembling chest

by relying on a blanket of dancing leaves

the sage window is framing the tree

a picture parallels a memory of future

only a few blinks ago, I too was rowing my heart

life is a feather; it only takes place through letting go

it only dances when you let it trip through the air of breaths

all smiles and tears are an excuse to stare

at the ground or the sky filled with invisible eyes

and the parallax of people’s faces will make you

want to be a part of it again

a window of a moving train, the tail of a rat

or the city, resting near the shore

the ocean, its hair, the breeze, its voice

with arms opened wide, bursting out to azure

it all will turn into a journal of dusty poems

and the journal, someone else’s rotten box

at the end, all hands guiding you to yourself

it all is a pine, spinning through a forest of petals

 

By – Parisa Sheikholeslami

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The Copper Flora Rain

From the soundless, listless, whiteless pitch,

the scentless iris of the enmasked reposts as

atmospheric rupture tears away my flesh.

Now arrest from peace to pink barrage

to the rainbow that conceives a burning baby

falling from the ashen sky.

 

I taste the shock as thunder fills my throat,

and in that time I scrape a life away from broken sounds

and rolling holes of monotonous teeth.

 

They see me here, and know full well my aura flows outward.

“It tastes of purple.” I hear them say, in English far surpassing my own.

My softened will can not give in, but crawl,

crawl on bouts of blinded faith and trust,

where not but sanctum can make me rot.

 

I pass up the home, the green, the orange,

and beneath a fungal pillar ripe with fly and beetle,

I rest my nose and let it absorb the flavor of this world.

 

Cradle me under your wing so I can see some hope.

My breath is failing to touch my heart

and the crimson streaks of life are draining from broken dams.

Softly, I will spur this passage home, but today I can say

“I will forever consume the air of Orion’s Belt.”

 

-by Arthur Pembrook

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Time for the Grind: Parallax Interviews Poet Katherine Factor

Here Parallax editor Jordan Sternberg interviews IAA’s Poet-in-Residence, Katherine Factor, on writing and editing.

Was there a defining moment in your life when you knew that you wanted to be a poet? If so, what was it?

No, there was no moment because the desire is steadfast, it is an endeavor one is always alive in — just that and what happens when you relentlessly press upon surface. So, the moment didn’t end, you know? But the mentors came in. I had this eccentric, polyester turtleneck wearing, abrasive as if-she-smoked-cigars sixth grade teacher, Jo Ann O’Hern. She not only turned me on to poetry, she demonstrated what championing work at a young age meant! Jo is forever lodged in my memory as she-who-showed-me language is moldable; My later retinue of mentors proved one could turn language into matter, and by proper craft we could churn it into something that truly matters.

Other early influences involve my hometown of Galesburg, Illinois, a town of yesteryear whose trains taught me that thought phrases could be dominated by sound; The poetic line is loud, is rollicking, is breaking landscapes. By grinding friction did those trochaic spondees chug, instilling rhythm in me. Also, being the birthplace of the Carl Sandburg — I inherited the sense that poetry could voice a people.

Early on I was also exposed to a lot of jazz and classical music, pinning in my ear a penchant for compositions that simultaneously sweep and experiment. However, whatever imprints abounded only make it more frustrating that “poet” comes from constant application of that noisy and annoying grindstone.

As a poet, what made you want to start working on the editing side of writing?

A poet is always editing, for poetry happens in a compression chamber. Consistently we edit as we run crazy errands for the economy of language. But the trick is, to turn the self-editor off while turning the composer on — making every note count! To grind is to bear down on letters until they become defined, bringing a lens into focus. The gears must be constantly churning, for the muse flashes so infrequently — better hope she’s greased and that you are poised with precision.

When I founded Wild Idylls Press in 2010, it was clear that student work at Idyllwild Arts was stupendous and deserved to be collected and published, which is an act of dispersal and an act of preservation. With the generous help of Arts Enterprise Laboratory (AEL) grants, we’ve paired with professional poets for mentoring. Students receive feedback on drafts, polishing and doing pre-production with me. Our first project was quite an event! Austin “Boston” (’11) kept crafting his tutorial novella with me — a surreal hero’s journey called The Breakfast. We put it into print and Austin’s reading paired with paintings by visual arts major Delaney Clark. Scenes from the stories formed a backdrop, breakfast was served, balloons were blown up, and Austin brought us on a journey indeed!

Our other chapbooks show the great diversity of style and experiment that poetry offers a young writer, as evident even by the book titles: Taylor Johnson’s (’11) breaking sunsets and Whitney Aviles-Low The Child’s Shadow were mentored long distance with poet Cathy Wagner. Jazz major Kat Dieter, (’12) took photographs to pair with her poems to produce Tidal Acceleration mentored by guest Kazim Ali, hand-binding her books with the help of faculty Erin Latimer (’02). 2012 saw incredible diversity with the publications of Kalinah White’s Guarded Memories about Africa and Peruvian Maria Alvarado’s book WRECKED. And I’m excited to have just published Erin Breen’s chapbook, Misconceptions! Erin collaborated with senior visual arts majors Kendall Ozmun and Delaney Clark, who took turns illustrating the fantastic, fun, and formally risky poems in the collection.

interr|upture,  the online journal I edit with Curtis Perdue, I wanted to be involved with because I believe in what we are publishing — poets like Emily Kendal Frey, Wendy Xu, and Justin Marks, with artists like Dana Olfdeather and Fernando Chamarelli. And I edit because I so enjoy what our peers are doing – journals like diode, jellyfish, sixth finch, H_NGM_N, iO, the Volta, and Drunken Boat — those making best use of the internet canvas. Editing is a prime way of contributing to the vibrant and viral  community that poetry fosters.

Tell us more about inter|rupture.

I met inter|rupture editor Curtis Perdue at Squaw Valley Poetry the summer before the magazine launched. He published two poems of mine in the first issue, poems I thought obstinate to most, but in publishing them, Curtis bestowed permission. Permission through publication is a type of mentoring. That is a hope and motion I desire to give other writers.

Turns out, Curtis could brave a gem of of journal, and we are different readers reaching for the same swell. Also, Anna Pollack is an incredible designer. She even found us this issue’s artist, Denton Crawford. So ill! His work is exactly what I’d expect a poem of mine to look like, gateway reflexing and all.

Additionally, I love the name inter|rupture! It feels like a place I inhabit, with the liminal easily seen and demarcated.

What kind of things do you publish?

Things? What is that? Do you mean, What do you look for in submissions? Well, I decidedly want the poem to pulverize me, grind on my notions with surprise! So please pop off immediately so I can furrow in and hence follow an image that drools and spools. One way to do this? Watch what articles are compression points, joints, hinges, what ones are unnecessary…what verbs are stagnant. Don’t try but taunt syntactical manipulation…sense why are you saying this…know how to fencepost…and so on.

Has your writing evolved over time or do you think you’ve always been consistent?

Yes, consistent in practice and purpose, following a Romantic urge, which is being in the mystery, the uncertainty. But the writing and collecting of language has evolved immensely. Idyllwild has given me the time to exist in a continuous grind, always tempting the augur and wishing an augury. For that I am grateful!

Outside of inter|rupture and Idyllwild Arts, how do you spend your free time?

I spend in practice, deeply immersed in process, the joys of which are heavily influenced by audio. 6,792 days might go by but I am just grinding away: typing keys and chafing the pulleys of my imagination. Currently, I am keeping  calendars, which is a regulatory act, and culling content that deserves to be freed. This can entail any variety of activities: delicately cutting & scanning images; compiling notebooks out of articles that provide a backside for printing fragments; researching, ripping pages & dogearing books t0 better translate their data into a new text; but often I am just absorbing.

On your twitter page, you post a lot about music. Is there any reason or are you just fascinated with music industry facts?

Oh, you want to know? Well, follow me @katfactor to find out!

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The Shanghai Excursion

Wreathed in white space,
I ask you
To stencil me in

 

(teach me the ways
of the modern woman)

..
…..
……….
……………….
……………………..
……………….
……….
…..
..

And you

All but refuse. for

futile is the woman
who cannot strut about
a crowded east-asian fish market
in six-inch stiletto heels.

hawkers may beckon,
but she remains a miserly vale.
no tip, no bag, no purchase:
you, seller. you clearly rigged the scale.

1,000% discount and counting,
she saunters away,
balances a tottering tray of dimsum
with a menagerie of goldfish:
polite curios for the little cousins.

(At the end of the New Year celebrations,
She’ll be in charge of clearing out
The fish tank in
Remarkably inauspicious
Black bags.)

in a city where six-hour grocery trips
are the norm,
more futile is the woman
who smells of fresh tilapia
at the end of said time interval.

(six times sixty
is three-sixty, did you know that?)

and – and –
in case you’ve forgotten:

most futile
is the woman
who cannot taste a rhetorical question

at the tip of her own tongue

 

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