New post on Cold War Novels

September 16, 2015, 3:12 am

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See a new post on Cold War novels here:

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Chapbook Review: UNO MAS. Words: Rich Wink, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Ben John Smith; Photography: Jimmy Gerrard. Horror Sleaze Trash Press, 2015.

September 26, 2015, 1:29 am

≫ Next: Book Review Jarrod Gilbert PATCHED: THE HISTORY OF GANGS IN NEW ZEALAND. Auckland University Press, Auckland, 2013 (344 pages).

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Uno Mas is the second collaborative effort amongst the English poet Rich Wink, the Northern Ontario poet Ryan Quinn Flanagan and the Melbourne poet Ben John Smith. It is the sequel to their earlier work The Holy Trinity, a short collection of verse published by Horror Sleaze Trash Press. Uno Mas is far more ambitious and experimental in style and consists of three extended stream of consciousness poems, one from each poet. The collection is also supplemented by four colour photographs by Jimmy Gerrard.

The title of the chapbook ‘Uno Mas’ means “one more” in Spanish and is attributed to Rich Wink who initiated the project. He explained the relevance of the title to me in a recent email, “When pondering a sequel to ‘The Holy Trinity’ I remember coming up with the title. I’d been reading a lot about that vintage era of boxing, those epic contests between Leonard, Duran, Hagler and Hearns. I was fascinated most by Roberto Duran, and the title is a play on his famous line of surrender ‘No Mas.”’

The structure and style of the book evolved through Ben Smith’s valuable input. As poet Ryan Quinn Flanagan explains, "We began writing a few early poems for the new project when Ben suggested that we not do individual poems like we did with Trinity but rather one long stream of consciousness. That then morphed into each of us doing one stream each, loosely connected but not directly related as each of us had no idea what anyone else was doing. When the streams were done, we brought Jimmy on board because we thought it would be cool to add some visuals to UM. Jimmy not only provided the visuals but did much of the leg work putting UM together. Lots of back and forth, input from all sides- it truly was a collaborative effort."

Jimmy Gerrard's photos are clear and sensual and help to create a sense of space. Wink says of Gerrard's involvement in the project, "I suggested bringing in James Gerrard, a photographer from Manchester, England. That was midway through the writing process. James had worked with Ben on a few projects and also shot the cover photo for my second full length poetry collection ‘Gord’ that was published through Ben’s Horror Sleaze Trash Press. We wanted James to collaborate, hence the inclusion of more of his wonderful photography inside the book as opposed to just a cover shot. We all trusted James and sent him our words, the photographs he took were fantastic. The girl in the photographs is a friend of James.”

THE POEMS

Ryan Quinn Flanagan ‘Big Black’

‘Big Black’ is a highly experimental poem, full of free-wheeling associations, childhood memories, observations, anecdotes, personal theories and reflections on diverse topics, such as, philosophy, god, writing insanity, politics. The poem is a broth of ideation, creatively exploring and developing new ideas as it discharges onto the page. You will find a wealth of language invention in its use of unusual metaphors, similes and images.

The language is sometimes crude but outrageously funny. Flanagan, for example, uses an extended metaphor to describe how an illness he had lingered on: “a few weeks back I had a fever of 103/ and I kept taking Tylenol but the fever wouldn’t break/ it was a clingy motherfucker, as if you took its virginity/ and now it won’t stop calling.” In explaining how cold it is in Canada he uses the unlikely simile, “cabin fever is a real thing/ seven months of winter around these parts/ sometimes it gets so cold it can’t snow,/ that’s like being so drunk you can’t fuck.” I also find interesting Flanagan’s insertion of anatomical terms throughout the poem, including: adrenal glands, urethra, smegma, outie and sphincter.

Sometimes you turn away from the page and wonder what the fuck is going on. But overall, this is invigorating writing and Flanagan throws everything into it.

Asked about his processes of composition and intent in the poem, Flanagan replies, “In terms of 'Big Black' and the process involved it was very strange and easy. Usually I write to music with a magnum of Chilean wine to loosen things up, but 'Big Black' was written in one sitting with no music or wine, just a glass of water. I just wrote whatever came in my head, not knowing how it would turn out. Real stream of consciousness just as Ben had suggested and in an hour it was done. The next day I went back and corrected any spelling issues I could find and that was that. No revision besides the spelling issues, everything real loose and easy. Then I sent my part off to the others and they shot what they had my way. The visuals came later as Jimmy was on vacation at the time and had to set up the shoot when he got back. There was a lot of back and forth trying to get the formatting right, but the content was what it was.

As for my intention in writing 'Big Black' it really was off the cuff, no planning outside of that it should just be a stream of consciousness sort of thing. I hadn't attempted such a thing in years. I know Ben was heavy into writing streams at the time, I don't know if Rich was. But yeah, I remember it was an unusually hot day here (much appreciated after seven months of winter in these parts) and I just kind of sat in front of the computer with a nice cold glass of water and zoned out for a while.”

An extract from ‘Big Black’:

I don’t understand many things

where I live the hunters skin bears in their garages

and post the pictures to Facebook

writing is a sickness, not an art,

did you know that?

lupus, with punctuation

I want to be a terrorist

they look like they’re all having so much fun

I don’t want to shoot anybody

just dress up in costumes

and run around in the sand

I used to think that because I could piss in double stream

that it meant I had multiple personalities

I wore a moose hat with antlers to school

and a necklace of dead animal parts

to fend off the bullies

insanity is a defence mechanism

a good one

whales beaching themselves so we have something else

to figure than crossword puzzles

another blister pack Nostradamus

rustproofing your urethra with bags of mixing cement

the pawnbroker’s painted hooker spit eyes

so big and cruel and

non-committal

putting out cigarettes on the failing back

of the sun

(reprinted with the permission of the poet)

Read online/ Buy Ryan Quinn Flanagan’s new book Bildungsroman, No! from Leaf Garden Press here:

http://leafgardenpress.blogspot.ca/2015/06/bildungsroman-no-by-ryan-quinn-flanagan.html

Also find some of his earlier books here:

http://www.interiornoisepress.com/INP_HP_Flanagan.html

http://www.horrorsleazetrash.com/

http://www.amazon.com/Caterpillars-Have-Surrendered-Turned-Butterflies/dp/1312898283/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1443201572&sr=1-5&keywords=Ryan+Quinn+Flanagan

Ben John Smith ‘Just But Doomed’

Ben John Smith is a committed and determined warrior of the underground press. He writes what he wants and publishes whenever he wants through his Horror Sleaze Slash Press. All of Ben Smith’s publications can be downloaded for free from his site here: http://www.horrorsleazetrash.com/downloads/

Asked about his interest in stream of consciousness writing, Smith said yesterday, “I have been doing streams for a while- maybe my last six chaps. The stream is just my internal monologue of how I’m going and dealing with things.” Asked about his innovative use stand-up comedians Lenny Bruce and Bill Hicks who make cameo appearances in ‘Just But Doomed’ Smith says, “Snapping back to the comedians is like referencing what state of mind I was in and both helped to shape that state of mind and furthered my rant.”

His poem ‘Just But Doomed’ evolves through a tenuous string of ideas which are propelled by Smith’s bent, anarchistic vision. Anything goes. Everything is possible. All rules are broken. Narrative voices shift. Churchill speaks the words of Kennedy. There are echoes of the Australian tennis veteran Lleyton Hewitt shouting out COME ON. A small x is carved into the persona’s chest to relieve the pressure in his chest. Later in the poem the reader is asked to imagine a war ground with an x drawn on it.

All the dots in this poem don’t join up but rather rebel against the notion of coherence. Yet the poem is lively and opens up just enough to let us in.

An extract from ‘Just But Doomed’:

She finished her wine before she took the pregnancy test.

I respected that.

I wish I was falling

14,000 feet from the earth

every second of my life

That coolness of a cave man juggling a spear

It always rains where flowers grow

Big blooms don’t

Need too much

Sunshine.

In the damp

Sometimes dark

Seeds

Peek

From

the

green

I just want to

hang stolen street signs in my room.

I’m still riddled with that teenage angst.

I write her love poems

but she doesn’t really like to read.

I paint for her

but everything comes out

like aliens

(reprinted with permission of the poet)

Rich Wink 'Uno Mas'

The title poem 'Uno Mas' is the most conventional in the collection. In the poem, the speaker recalls through flashbacks memorable incidents during his young adult life. The writing is highly descriptive and engaging.

In the first section of the poem, the speaker recounts his journey as a nineteen year old to Norwich. He hikes disconnected against the flow of traffic through the decaying ruins of the city to Anglia Square. In the second section, he discusses his relationship with an ex-girlfriend who has a strange obsession to build a wall to isolate herself from the world. The third section recounts another one of the speaker's youthful experiences, this time as a glass collector at the whorehouse Platinum Lace. In the poem's denouement, the speaker's hands are jarred by the sharpness of his house keys and he returns to the present. He chuckles to himself at the fondness of his reveries.

An extract from 'Uno Mas'

Life has a tendency to spit in your porridge.

The working women didn't really want to know me.

I scurried around gathering bottles and jars

but my attempts at small talk never got far.

When the customers got rowdy

I fled when the fists flew.

Dodging jealous roidheads and jittery drunkards

Who fell for their private dances.

I often thought long and hard donning the armour

and playing white knight,

but it made as much sense as fighting Boardman's windmill.

It simply wasn't worth it for six fifty an hour.

I cradle my thoughts the way any sane man does.

Hoping to be rescued by Eva Marie Saint

in a crop duster

Her porcelain hand would reach down and...

I hail cabs after they drive past.

I stand on the side of the road and look down Grapes Hill.

I put my hands in my pocket and feel the sharpness of my house keys.

A wet smile forms on my face

and I chuckle again.

(reprinted with the permission of the poet)

Asked about his involvement in the Uno Mas project Rich Wink is affable and upbeat:

“It's quite a unique story really. I first came across Ben's work when I was running the litzine Gloom Cupboard http://gloomcupboard.com/2009/08/31/a-day-in-the-life-of-an-australian-poet/, we began corresponding from there, and noticed we had a love of the same writers like Bukowski and Palahniuk and quite a few things in common. We've been writing snail mail to each other for years. Ben very much likes to interact with other writers by actually writing in the traditional sense.

The unique part of this collaboration is that none of us have met face to face. Our relationship as writers and friends has been forged through online and written correspondence. I think that is a sign of the times as we all have online relationships through social media and forums and our ‘real life’ friendships and relationships. Part of the reason for not meeting yet is down to geography, and part of that is due to work commitments and finances. Alongside being creative we pay the rent like anybody else doing run of the mill jobs.”

Purchase the chapbook here: http://www.lulu.com/shop/ben-john-smith-and-ryan-quinn-flanagan-and-jimmy-gerrard-and-rich-wink/uno-mas/paperback/product-22281852.html

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Book Review Jarrod Gilbert PATCHED: THE HISTORY OF GANGS IN NEW ZEALAND. Auckland University Press, Auckland, 2013 (344 pages).

September 29, 2015, 4:07 am

≫ Next: New Release: Janne Karlsson The Art of Vomit. Epic Rites Press, Sherwood Park Alberta, 2015 (48 pages)

≪ Previous: Chapbook Review: UNO MAS. Words: Rich Wink, Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Ben John Smith; Photography: Jimmy Gerrard. Horror Sleaze Trash Press, 2015.

This book is written by Dr Jarrod Gilbert, a sociologist who lectures at the University of Canterbury in Christchurch: http://www.arts.canterbury.ac.nz/soci-anth/people/gilbert.shtml This is a complex and comprehensive study of gangs in New Zealand since 1950. It is accessible to the average reader but is written in a flat, matter-of-fact tone. Gilbert’s research was undertaken over a period of ten years, including eight years in the field hanging around with various gangs. As Gilbert mentions in his Preface: “The consequences of these undertakings were not always desirable: a knife to the throat; involvement in a large gang brawl; battling the fatigue that comes from partying for days at a time; and a couple of fights where I was soundly beaten are among these events I can comfortably repeat here.” In the end, his research paid off. As a result of this book, he received a University of Canterbury Doctoral Scholarship and a C. Wright Mills Award for his sociology PhD.

PATCHED includes a wide range of voices, including gang members, police officers, politicians, community workers, media commentators and researchers. Fifty-five interviews were conducted, including thirty-two with gang members and the remainder with police officers, politicians, lawyers and two women associated with gangs. Another strong feature of the book is Gilbert’s detailed analysis of social, economic and political contexts as a cause for gang activity.

The main thrust of PATCHED, however appears to be focussed on how governments of different persuasions responded to and enacted legislation to quell community fears of gang violence. Gilbert strongly states in his conclusion, “We need to understand the complexities of the issue that we are dealing with before we will have a reasonable chance of addressing it; and it is important to be cautious- indeed disdainful- of political figures proffering simple solutions to undeniably complex social phenomena.”

In his study, Gilbert identifies four pivot points in New Zealand history since 1950 which reconfigured the gang scene and which resulted in key law changes or fundamental shifts in public opinion.

(1) The formation of the Hell’s Angeles in Auckland in 1 July 1961. The wearing of gang patch and the adoption of a formal organisation and rules led to an explosion in outlaw gangs in New Zealand in the 1960s and 1970s.

(2) The Moerewa Incident in August 1979. After a few altercations with Black Power, the Stormtroopers from Auckland travelled to the North Island town of Moerewa to confront their foe. Unable to find any Black Power members, the Stormtroopers attacked some policemen and savagely beat them. This was the “most serious incident of gang violence that the country had experienced to date” and following two trials twenty-five men were convicted of various offences and received jail terms of between four months and eight years. Significantly, the event did not lead to more repressive legislation to suppress gang activities but rather the introduction of social policies, such as, work contracts to target the problems faced by gangs, including disadvantage and unemployment.

(3) The Mongrel Mob and the Ambury Park Rape 1986. The Mongrel Mob held a convention in 1986 and the Auckland Regional Authority granted the Mob part use of a farm called Ambury Park in South Auckland. A young woman wandered into the vicinity of the park and was dragged through a car window. When graphic details of her rape emerged there was a backlash against gangs “and sympathy toward government-funded work schemes evaporated.” As Gilbert writes in Chapter 5: ‘The Prime Minister and the Patch’, “The social policy agenda that had dominated political thinking since 1979 was effectively over” and “calls for a forceful approach towards gangs only became louder.”

(4) Legislating Against the ‘Gang Menace’ 1996-

In 1996, two unrelated gang conflicts occurred on the South Island. Although the gang violence wasn’t any more severe as previous examples, the “wars” were seized upon by police and politicians to pass the most aggressive legislation against gangs to date. In Christchurch, a new chapter of the Road Knights was at war with the entrenched Epitaph Riders and in Invercargill, the Road Knights fought to prevent a new Black Power chapter muscling in. In April 1996 three Knights in a car fired on a group of Epitaph Riders in Christchurch. The bullets missed the bikies and instead injured a young couple in a passing car. The Invercargill dispute also lead to a series of shootings prompting the authorities to take action.

The public nature of the attacks alarmed the general community and assured significant police and political attention. As a general election neared, politicians outdid each other to show how tough they were on crime and elevated the gang menace to a national issue. A series of new laws and amendments were made to existing laws including the Crimes Act (1961) and the Harassment Act (1977).

Not all of PATCHEDis about the outlaw gang-community balance and community responses when outlaw gangs overstep the mark. Some of the more interesting sections in the book discuss things outlaw, such as, clubhouse etiquette, tinnie houses, women in gangs, rules and informal codes of behaviour, taxing, intimidation and other forms of underworld entrepreneurialism.

In his solid Conclusion, Gilbert views gangs as “an inevitable part of society” but they will only rarely affect the public with their activities. People join gangs because of the sense of power they provide individuals, “Whether riding in a pack of an outlaw club, or walking into a public place with members of a patched street gang, one cannot help but appreciate the sense of power that exists within these groups, knowing each member has the other’s back. The feeling of being a part of something strong and powerful and exhilarating, and this is only enhanced by the furtive glances of onlookers and the respect paid by those who come in direct contact with the group. Even in mundane situations, you gain attention, you are somebody.”

More importantly, Gilbert writes, “Gang membership is largely built upon adverse social and economic conditions. Gangs may always be evident in less deprived communities, but with better social conditions they are likely to be smaller in number, less entrenched, and generate fewer community problems. As long as New Zealand has communities faced with poor education, overcrowded housing, unemployment, family abuse, and poverty, the country will always have gangs.”

Gilbert is insightful and thorough in his writing, but I can’t picture 1%ers ever taking up this book unless they have a strong interest in social policy. The turgid, academic style makes the reading of this book heavy going. Although many gang members have been interviewed not much of substance has been gained from them. As mentioned in an Amazon review, maybe most outlaws didn’t want to talk to this joker.

Find the book here: http://www.amazon.com/Patched-The-History-Gangs-Zealand/dp/1869407296

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New Release: Janne Karlsson The Art of Vomit. Epic Rites Press, Sherwood Park Alberta, 2015 (48 pages)

October 5, 2015, 6:35 pm

≫ Next: Further Releases: Janne Karlsson Moor Misery. Svenskapache, 2014 (24 pages)

≪ Previous: Book Review Jarrod Gilbert PATCHED: THE HISTORY OF GANGS IN NEW ZEALAND. Auckland University Press, Auckland, 2013 (344 pages).

This is the latest insanity from the Swedish artist Janne Karlsson. The book contains 41 of his minimalistic sketches and most are centred on the theme of drinking alcohol and getting totally wasted. Karlsson’s humour is outrageously cheeky and mired in numerous images of his characters wallowing in their own vomit.

The book is not a celebration of drinking but rather of Karlsson taking the piss out of pissheads. He mocks a culture which lauds heavy drinking and which sees vomit as a badge of honour. His drunks are represented ironically as obnoxious, vain, foul-mouthed and deluded. In one sketch a female reader Tatiana asks Karlsson in a letter, “You’re a talented artist, so why this negative focusing on vomit, black-outs and misery?” Karlsson is explicit in his reply, “Alcoholism isn’t pretty, baby. Get used to it!!”

The best sketches tend to consist of two panels. The first makes a matter-of-fact statement usually highlighting a benefit of alcohol. The second ironically exposes the human frailty of the remark. Here is a fine example:

Karlsson also gently mocks his own drinking and appears to feature in many of his sketches as an artist who drinks to gain inspiration through oblivion. He humorously writes a series of letters to Jagermeister liqueur producers asking for a discount, a sponsorship deal and for a complimentary bottle for the mild nausea he experienced after consuming their product.

This is a confronting book in which the surface euphoric zest of a heavily drinking culture is thoroughly mocked and condemned. The following illustration is a strikingly accurate view of Australia:

(all sketches above reprinted with the permission of the artist)

Buy the book here: http://www.epicrites.org/books.html

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Further Releases: Janne Karlsson Moor Misery. Svenskapache, 2014 (24 pages)

October 6, 2015, 4:14 am

≫ Next: Cohen Corner welcomes Wolfgang Carstens: 30 September 2015

≪ Previous: New Release: Janne Karlsson The Art of Vomit. Epic Rites Press, Sherwood Park Alberta, 2015 (48 pages)

This is Karlsson’s most deranged book I have read to date. It is a colourised comic about Myra and Ian, a couple of ghosts who have a criminal past. We learn they have killed a young girl who now has come back to haunt them as an angel of death. As Myra fears, “She’s come to rip up my womb and tear off your dick.” The narrative slides to an astonishing conclusion.

My guess is that this book was either written in a psychiatric ward or the artist was in need of urgent treatment.

For more info: svenskapache@gmail.com

jan-karlsson@hotmail.com

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Cohen Corner welcomes Wolfgang Carstens: 30 September 2015

October 7, 2015, 12:48 am

≫ Next: TV Review: SBS Drama Series: The Principal (October 2015)

≪ Previous: Further Releases: Janne Karlsson Moor Misery. Svenskapache, 2014 (24 pages)

Wolgang Carstens reads 21 of his humorous "love poems" which reflect the elusive dichotomy between idealised love and the reality of lived experience.

Find more of his stuff here: www.wolfgangcarstens.com

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TV Review: SBS Drama Series: The Principal (October 2015)

October 7, 2015, 5:29 am

≫ Next: Featuring RD Armstrong

≪ Previous: Cohen Corner welcomes Wolfgang Carstens: 30 September 2015

Episode 1

Not exactly the terrible tragedy we are presently seeing unfold in a Parramatta school in Sydney: http://www.theage.com.au/nsw/parramatta-shooting-farhad-jabar-was-recruited-by-western-sydney-extremists-20151007-gk3i76.html, but perhaps as cautionary.

Matt Bashir, like Mark Thackeray (Sidney Poitier) in To Sir With Love, sees himself as “a sucker” for a challenge. As the new principal of the notorious Boxdale Boys High, in Sydney’s west, he wants to pull the students into line & make a difference. On his first day on the job, Bashir meets the students at the school gate and shakes their hands. One student, later identified as Tarek Ahmad, crudely asks him, "Who the fuck are you?"

Bashir has grown up in the area and was once a student at the school and therefore has some cred. He is calm & measured in his dealings with students & staff and is certainly genuine in promoting community support in advancing the needs of the school.

The high school reminds me of Shalvey High School in the 1980s but not as tough. Barbed-wire, security cameras, prison-like. Bashir over sensationalises the situation by declaring during a staff meeting that, "This place is a war zone."

This story appears to have all the hallmarks of fictionalising the aspirational narrative of Jihad Dib: http://www.smh.com.au/nsw/principal-jihad-dib-of-sydneys-punchbowl-boys-high-school-is-a-study-in-success-20140723-zw0nv.htmlthe outstanding ex-principal of Punchbowl Boys High who was recently elected into the NSW Legislative Assembly as an ALP representative for Lakemba: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jihad_Dib

Alex Dimitriades plays a highly credible role as the street smart and compassionate principal. In his first staff meeting he is explicit & hyperbolic in his goals: “This is our last chance to turn this place around. Give me two weeks and I’ll make a difference.” After the students begin to respect him & shake his hand at the school gate, Bashir calls a P&C meeting & urgently states his call to arms: “This school is in crisis. Sitting on the fence is only going to mean one thing: A sore ass.”

The Principalis riddled in clichés (far too many to compile here) but is a powerful and important drama for our times.

Watch Episode 1: http://www.sbs.com.au/programs/the-principal

Episode 2

This is disappointing sensationalistic episode. The dead body of the student shown at the start of the four-part series is finally discovered & most of this episode is devoted to investigating the murder. The search is obvious & largely predictable.

The representation & in particular the judgment of the principal disintegrates in this episode. Bashir is hell-bent at returning the students to class the following day so as to not disrupt their education despite serious community concerns.

Later he inappropriately accepts a young female cop's offer to have a drink with him after a hugely traumatic day. Bahir's saintliness finally implodes at the conclusion of the episode when he returns to the pub & wordlessly meets a guy & then they begin to savagely kiss before they disappear into a toilet cubicle where presumably they bang away.

The representation of the deputy-principal is another annoying low in the series. She is depicted as incompetent, culturally oblivious, stupid, judgmental & intolerant. I suppose such deputies exist, but why thump us viewers over the head with the unsubtleties of this perspective? Together with the phoney Arabic accents, the wild-eyed emotionality of Tarek, the arrogant clearly racist views of Inspector Billage, this drama seriously lacks balance and maturity.

Overall, this episode is relatively flat and uninspiring with the occasional punch-up, a burnt-out car or the motif of the dead body. Bashir's gay fling is unprepared for and genuinely surprising. This series is becoming very cartoon-like in substance and delivery.

Find Episode 2 here: http://www.sbs.com.au/programs/the-principal

EPISODE 3:

This is a complicated episode which advances several story strands, including- the conflict between Tarek and Sisi, the relationship between Kellie Norton, the Police Liason Officer and the Principal and the police investigation into the murdered student. The continuity of the series is severely compromised by the ads which appear in four extended blocks during the show. Thanks to the recent ex-PM Abbott’s cuts to the SBS, the broadcaster has been given the green light to double the time allocated to ads per hour. So just when you thought you were getting back into the series, another swag of ads belts you.

The principal’s integrity is seriously called into question in this episode. He is seen comforting the boys during Karim’s funeral and when he is spotted in the school’s ICT footage he is suspected by the police of abusing an African refugee pupil, Kenny Marondo. At the end of the episode is taken to the station by detectives for questioning.

We also meet Matt’s Bashir posh ex-wife who tells the cops that “Matt would never let me in. He never got over the death of his friend in high school. He just ran.” When the police visit the dead boy’s mother, there is a strong suggestion that the boys had a sexual relationship.

I guess that Alice Addison, the writer of the show, is trying to make us think that due to Matt’s homosexual proclivities, that he is also a pedaphile. Remember he was accused of mauling a girl at his previous school. In this episode he is seen hanging around a public toilet and again rejects Kellie’s advances. I think these are red-herrings. He should come clean.

The only redeeming action by the principal is badly handled. When Tarek arrives at school off his face on ice and tells his cooking teacher “to fuck off faggot,” he takes him to the hospital, partly to avoid a police interrogation and record. The following day Bashir calls an assembly & tells the boys bluntly, “I won’t have any more drugs in my school.” He further tells them to get whatever drugs they have and put them in the bin which has been placed next to him on the ground. This drug amnesty is rash and naïve attempt to quell his desperate rage. Bashir movingly says to his deputy, “Tarek is symptomatic of everything that is wrong in this school. If we can’t help him, then we don’t have a fucking hope in hell!”

After he leaves the school, he approaches a middle-eastern gang of suspected drug dealers and foolishly tells them, “I don’t want your drugs anywhere near my kids. If you give as much as a panadol to any of them, I’ll make it my business that you don’t have one.” The leader of the gang is miffed but threatening, “You have a death wish or something?” I guess in the final episode tomorrow, the principal’s feud with the gang will predominate in the climax.

SBS character notes: http://www.sbs.com.au/programs/the-principal/meet-characters

↧

Featuring RD Armstrong

October 7, 2015, 11:04 pm

≫ Next: Book Review/ Interview: Mike Meraz She Poems (Epic Rites Press, 2015) 33 pages

≪ Previous: TV Review: SBS Drama Series: The Principal (October 2015)

Bungalows on De Longpre

The bungalows on De Longpre

do not sing a happy tune

do not stand out like a vase of

happy yellow flowers w/

brown faces and radiant petals

The bungalows on De Longpre --

a skidmark off of Normandie

in the cracked stucco jungle

of east Hollywood

Walls stained w/ the rust

of lorca’s tears, of grieving widows

at the gates of paramount studios

standing at the intersection of the

avenida de los lost souls and the parque

of the disappeared w/ crumpled renderings

of lost familia pleading w/ red eyes and

tear-stained cheeks for hope or charity

The bungalows on De Longpre

do not speak a known language but

mumble in a dialect inaudible except to dogs:

sounds like bones being slowly crushed

by a large stone wheel

The bungalows on De Longpre

looking tedious and unrepentant

on a Saturday afternoon in humorless sunshine

standing like monuments to the War All The

Time of 1966 Los Angeles and the sweet

miracle of words ratcheted loose

from the yawning mouth of death

and nailed to the page by the clackity-clack

of a drunken two o’clock in the morning typewriter.

Death Comes Stumbling

Death comes stumbling through an open door

any door will do

Death isn’t too choosey

these days

Death is overworked and underpaid

a day late and a dollar short

Death wants to take a break

but is understaffed and can’t get away

even for a weekend.

I think about death differently

ever since that morning in January

when Death spun me around

and dropped me on the floor

like a rag doll,

my life flashing before my eyes,

the thread that tied me to this life,

unraveling before my eyes

while my girlfriend smiled

and nodded

at me.

Death isn’t that melodramatic departure

that I dreamed of as a child

or that martyred sacrificial lamb

dropped in the service of some great calling

“Nobility of Sacrifice for the cause”

that I mistakenly longed for as a young adult

And, most likely, Death

will not come for me like an old friend

in my stinking old age

to ease my ancient suffering.

No, Death will keep taking pot shots at me

like a weekend “plinker”

riddling my roadside sign life until it drops

onto the shoulder of the highway

more air than sign.

Death will pick at me

like a scab,

pulling me apart

one piece at a time.

Last Stop

The old guy sat at the table

with his wife

his back faced the room

a tuft of very white hair stood

on his head like a cloud

hovering close

over San Joaquin

farmland.

The old guy was about as big around

as a minute

his clothes hung loosely on his frame.

He was doing his best to fill them

with what was left.

The old guy's wife smiled

and spoke to him in a low voice

inaudible to the rest of the room

her eyes twinkled

as he worked on a piece of cake

and sipped a cappuccino

his hands trembling.

As they left

she balanced his frail frame

against her own

he was going as fast as he could

and soon he would be gone

altogether.

(‘Last Stop’ was awarded first place in the Charles Bukowski Poetry Contest, San Pedro, 16 August 2015)

Raft of Morphine

Photographic images mix

with memories and recent occurrences

forming a scrapbook montage

in my mind’s eye, a constant

source of distraction

everyday, but even more

appreciated on this day,

day of waiting,

day of passage, perhaps, or

merely day of floating closer to the edge.

You lay sleeping on your raft of morphine

drifting in a cool white fog

towards the end of the world

towards the rim where the waters of sleep

spill over into oblivion.

I cannot be with you

dare not swim in those waters

out to your raft.

but I am with you in spirit

floating with you

my hands resting on your

sleeping form, as if touching

would make such a difference,

as if being there would matter.

It cannot matter that

there is a hard spot in my chest

or that I am so sad or

that I would choke on my tears

if I could see you now.

Only this fact that I honor

my memories of you

that I will always see you

as I saw you ten years ago:

my father’s older brother

and my uncle Jim, a man

I respect

only this will matter

and only to me.

But I must let you go now

I can hear the roar of the water

it’s deafening and yet, it comforts.

You drift on, then, and

good-bye

YardBird Burned

YardBird burned
All Wick -- No Candle

Made it to the sun and back

Unlike Icarus --

YardBird couldn’t burn out --

his spirit was the flame by which

HE burned.

YardBird burned

‘til there was only

a husk left

‘til all the notes --

the be-boppin’ bitty

black notes --

were piled at his feet

like cigar ash.

YardBird

swung his sax

in a mighty arc

like an ax

spinning like

a Dervish

carving

a niche

out of the

“don’t-take-it-for”

granite walls

of Swing-Jazz-Tradition.

YardBird shaped

a Bop See-gar-cough-a-gus

out of his to-brief-time

spent on planet Earth.

The Bop-line

firing volley after volley

of bitty-black notes

skyward -- unleashing

them like blackbirds

blotting out reality’s

harsh light ‘til

the wee-wee hours.

YardBird was never

at ease, at rest

Fingers always a blur

accelerating

ACCELERATING

until time shifted gears

in self-defense --

into SLOW-motion then to

stand

still.

YardBird smiled ‘cause

only he saw the joke.

YardBird burned.

Did not really play

his sax -- it played him

Played him until his “reed”

fell apart -- broke down

disintegrated

Broke Bird down --

Time finished him

with a smile

on his face --

death by cosmic relief

You say it was H that

took his life but you

are wrong.

H lulled Mr Charley

into slowing down

Hip-no-(N)ticed him

H slowed him down --

promised him the means

to survive this heartbreak

We call surviving.

H slowed the bird down --

gave Time a clean shot.

Time took it from there.

YardBird

Burns

Still.

Edging Along A Pock-marked Wall

by RD Armstrong

“I wouldn’t join a club that would have me as a member.” Groucho Marx

I’ve always been leery of being labeled, perhaps because I’ve been a non-conformist for most of my life, coming from that generation of non-conformists that later would be known as the baby boomers. Most of us started out as non-conformers, then hippies, then yuppies, then the greedy SOBs that have made America (in part) what it is today. But while most of the country has moved to the right, I have continued down the road (much) less traveled. I have plugged away for many years, sometimes wondering (and sometimes not) where this road will lead and what the end result of my persisting on it will be. Ultimately, I think that this is not a journey from point A to point B, but more a passage; one that began some time ago and will end sometime in the future. It’s all very zen…very mystical, and I like it that way.

That’s one of the things that is missing in this world in which I live (and so to, in the art that I do that reflects this world): a spiritual base. I don’t mean some dogma from Catholicism or even Buddhism. What I mean is some kind of connection to this world that goes beyond mere physicality. I have stuff, things I’ve acquired, that I move from rental to rental, that I’m connected to by dint of ownership, but there is precious little to remind me of my esoteric connection to this world. I have a few books of a mystical nature but beyond that there is really only one thing that serves to provide a connection and that is poetry, both mine and selections from various poets I’ve read over the past thirty-five years.

When Todd Moore first floated the idea past me that I was an “outlaw” poet, I really wasn’t sure what he meant. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard the phrase; after all, there was the Outlaw Bible of Poetry (a book I’d been excluded from because of politics), but that was kinda silly because it included the work of the famous poet James Dean and even I knew that, that, was a crock of shit. Then there was this genre of Outlaw Poets that included a group of guys that I knew were a joke, so I was naturally confused. What was Todd tryin’ to lump me in with?

I’ve been goin’ my way, all these years and I have muddled through, being mostly self-taught when it comes to this poetry thing. I was, of course, a big fan of the BUK (all along) and a sporadic fan of Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg. But not so much as the BUK, who was my guiding light or darkness, depending on your natural persuasion. Unfortunately, I never reached my maturity while BUK was alive (well, not fully at least). I was able to share one poem with him before he “shuffled off this mortal coil.” It was, ironically, an ode to his final days. So I sprang from BUK into this so-called outlaw life. But it would be years before I would actually be an “outlaw.”

Ironically, my whole life has been lived as an outlaw. I have been, as the saying goes, flying below the radar, since I was old enough to hold down a job. So the outlaw life, as it is portrayed in the media, has been my life “style.” Yet, I find this label somehow troubling. This may be a result of the fear of being labeled. I don’t see myself as an Outlaw Poet. But I do see myself as a poet who exists outside the norm, operating in a vacuum, as it were. But again, this is a condition of living in the metropolitan world of Los Angeles and feeling as if I am laboring in a bubble.

If I had the amazing countryside of New Mexico as a backdrop, I might be able to establish the dialogue necessary to join the two realms of my world together. I know I’m drawn to this region, but I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the starkness of the landscape or the relative lack of population. It’s hard to see the quirks in humanity when you are engulfed in a sea of people. I don’t know if that makes sense or not. I find that, while I’m influenced by my surroundings, I do not necessarily write about my surroundings. Living in a city, surrounded by cities (such as the L. A. Basin with millions of people all pressed together), I find that the bombardment of information (sight, sound, smells, ideas, etc.) nearly overwhelming most of the time. But when I get out into the wilderness, be it high desert or forest, I feel cleansed after a day or two, my battery recharged, as it were. Maybe I just need to get away.

So, as to my influences, besides the physical world and its bombardment of the senses, there have been a number of writers who have influenced me, but not as many as you might think because I am, for the most part, a literary stumblebum. I say this because I am not a product of any institution of higher learning, nor am I a prodigious reader (the irony of this is not lost on me, since I am constantly being asked to review other poet’s books, which is a daunting task for me). I have admired the descriptive observations of Edward Abbey, Charles Bukowski, Jay Alamares, John Thomas, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, John Hiatt and John Steinbeck. Some of Hemingway’s short stories, as well as JD Salinger’s, have been interesting, as well. I like Dennis LeHane and Todd Moore for gut wrenching visions. And for the lyrical stuff that gives me the goosebumps, I read Leonard J. Cirino and Rebecca Morrison; and, I really like Tom Waits. His ability to capture poignant moments in his ballads just blows me away (perhaps this is why I like to sing his songs so much). There are probably a lot more people I’m forgetting, but this covers a lot of ground. I like these writers because they are “plain-talking” and by that I mean that I understand what I read. I don’t have to read it over and over to “get” it. I don’t have to understand the style to get it. Plus, I can relate to the characters and/or themes.

I should also mention that I have a case of wanderlust that borders on mania: put me in an old truck on an old two lane road and I’m in hog heaven. Of course these days, it’s damn near impossible to find an old two lane, much less an old truck that doesn’t cost more than a new car, and with gas nudging into the three dollar range…well you get the idea. I’m nearly crazy at being so frustrated. Thank god I still remember snippets of old trucks and old roads past. I’ve had more love affairs with old trucks than I’ve had with women – and that says a lot about how far off the beaten path I am.

This whole business about being an outlaw, well it just makes me queasy. I’ve known a number of poets who would like nothing better than to be remembered as “outlaws” – but as Todd once told me, a true outlaw doesn’t need to brag about it. I don’t need to succumb to bragging about it, but I don’t think I even want to be known that way because most of the poets I know who call themselves outlaw are not the kind I’d want to be associated with. Maybe it’s too hip to be known as “outlaw” or maybe I just don’t want to be lumped into that group. I pretty much feel I’m a lone wolf on the horizon…being called outlaw, well it seems to be almost too crowded.

As to my energy, or that which fires me to do this…I find that I tend to write out of anger, even if my writing is not angry. This is not the world I thought I’d be living in. There is so much suffering and cruelty. I really believed we would have transcended this by now. But we have not. It’s as if history just began at the start of the 20th Century. I thought that all the bullshit we went through with WWI and WWII and all the other bloody conflicts since would have put our bloodlust in check, but no…So when I think about how stupid we are as a race, I tend to react with violence and anger and frustration. I mean, what the fuck?! Then my humanity kicks in and the next thing I know I’m writing with compassion. How could I possibly an “outlaw poet”?

I’m really an outsider. I’ve always been; a stranger in a strange land. Maybe this should be a new category. I don’t know what else to say.

POET HEAL THYSELF by RD Armstrong

Living with con-artists, liars and thieves

Some years ago, it came to my attention that a poet from back east, who was famous for his tales of mayhem during and after the Viet Nam war (where he claimed he was disfigured while he served as a Navy Seal), was lying about his whole war experience. It’s even doubtful that he served at all. Yet his books (which were published by the thousands by a reputable press operated by Henry Rollins) are often cited as true chronicles of that horrible time. Apparently he had a vivid imagination.

Then, last year, a poet of modest success here in the kingdom known as the small press (or more accurately, the alternative small press), staged his own death. This guy couldn’t get enough play from the drek (my opinion) that he called poetry, so he decided to pull a fast one, letting it be known that he had finally succumbed to his demons and taken his own life. When he was found out (and he was found out because he announced that he was still alive), a shockwave of disgust and anger rocked those of us who gave a damn…imagine, a poet operating with impaired judgment and an ego the size of Penn Station! Shocking, indeed. This was a bitter pill to swallow for all the editors who’d been busy fitting this guy for a halo and a pair of wings. Naturally they were pissed off for being tricked as well. No surprise there. Nobody likes to be fooled.

Now there’s a "poet" who claims to be Algerian poet, Amari Hamadene*, who is submitting work around The Web that he has plagiarized from other poets whose work has been published on reputable websites, such as Pedestal Magazine. What has become of our little poetry heaven? Yes, it’s a deceitful world, but not in our ‘house’ – say it isn’t so!

Well friends, it is so! And it’s a damned shame, too. But, let’s get serious for a moment. How can we be surprised by any of this? After all, isn’t it high time that we (I speak as an editor as well as some poet with an opinion) accepted some of our responsibility in all this? I mean, these jerks wouldn’t be able to get away with this if it weren’t for the editors who supposedly know the difference between the good stuff and crap, publishing their puerile and pusillanimous drek…all in the name of artistic freedom, or free speech, or some other jingoistic nonsense. Yes, it’s shocking when you hear of some guy over in North Africa cashing in on some “local” poet’s skills and notoriety. This certainly isn’t the first time this has happened (I recall a friend of mine up in Oakland telling me how a certain famous poet plagiarized the first half of a poem he had written about 9/11 and there was nothing my friend could do about it, since the famous poet had so many ‘connections’) and I doubt it will be the last.

But I wonder, haven’t we encouraged this kind of behavior in our quest for a “pure” form of expression. Wasn’t that the ideal for poetry on the Internet? A place where one could post their poems for the “entire” world to see, unfettered by politics, risk or salability? Where poets with no reputation or formal training could find a forum for their particular voice? I know that, that is why I was drawn to the Web in the first place, for the promise of free expression (just as long as you didn’t violate the code of ethics of the web-hosts) in an atmosphere of anything goes.

Since we live in a time of corruption (which is nothing new when you examine the path of history), it’s easy to understand the dichotomy between those who seek a purer forum for expression and those who just want to muck everything up. It’s the old battle between good and evil being played out on the (supposedly) sacred grounds of poetry and we can only watch with horror and/or delight. The crazy antics of these players are entertaining and diversionary, distracting us from the fact that the whole theatre is about to collapse under the weight of its own pretence: that poetry should be a level playing field for everyone. Well, it’s not. Nor should it be. It’s as complicated a terrain as the people who travel through it. Let’s face it, poets are just as screwed up as everyone else. Sure we might express ourselves a little better, but basically we’re all cursed and there’s no way to get around that. Perhaps that’s why we strive towards perfection in our chosen craft.

There’s nothing wrong with trying to improve oneself, and I wish more people/poets would make the effort; but thinking that the problem is just a few individuals, a few rotten apples, one might say, is to be extremely naïve. The problem, as I see it, is that we are continuously tempted to take the easy route. It’s a hard life for most of us, and the temptations are many. It’s hard to keep your eyes on the prize, when you’re not really sure what that prize is.

It takes discipline and focus to survive this trek. Poetry, being the bastard step-child of literature, demands constant attention. It’s not an easy task, in spite of what many think. It’s high time that we stop sitting on our hands and start doing something to legitimize this craft we call poetry. Maybe there will be a union effort, or maybe it will fall to individuals to start the ball rolling, but, folks, if we’re going to make any headway, we’ve got to put our house in order.

2005

* I received an email from Amari Hamadene in which he claims that his name was used by an unknown person in the commission of these fraudulent submissions and that he is the victim of a hoax. One wonders what the point is here...why would anyone bother to sign someone else's name to stolen intellectual property? But then I suppose, given the thrust of my essay, anything is possible.

BIO

RD Armstrong aka Raindog has 18 chapbooks and 9 books to his name and has been published in over 300 poetry magazines, anthologies and e-zines. He also operates the Lummox Press which published the Lummox Journal for 11 years; the Little Red Book series (61 titles) and the new Respect series of perfect bound collections (59 titles and counting). RD has labored to serve the world of small press poetry for over 20 years. The Lummox Poetry Anthology is one of his newest projects. Visit the website at www.lummoxpress.com/lc for more info and/or ordering.

I recommend you have a look at Raindog’s blog posts, the latest one ‘Choices’ here: http://www.lummoxpress.com/dawg-blog/

↧

Book Review/ Interview: Mike Meraz She Poems (Epic Rites Press, 2015) 33 pages

October 12, 2015, 9:15 pm

≫ Next: Featuring Allison Grayhurst

≪ Previous: Featuring RD Armstrong

She Poems is American poet Mike Meraz’s latest collection. It consists of 30 minimalistic confessional poems. The poems are less than a page in length and they all hug the left margin of the page. Like Shakespeare’s love sonnets the poems do not have formal titles but rather are numbered 1 to 30. These are clear, highly accessible free verse poems which focus on the poet’s relationship with a variety of women and his accompanying thoughts and feelings on love.

In a recent interview with Meraz (which appears after this review), he explains the genesis of the book and how he came up with title, “ I was writing a lot of poems about a particular girl. I was going to call it “(the name of the girl) Poems” but then I started writing poems about other women in my life or had been in my life. The writing happened in a span of about 2 years. It was then I realized I had a book in the making. Also, I was writing a lot of poems with the word “she” in it. I would never mention names, just “she this”… “she that…” So that’s where the title comes from.”

In the interview, Meraz also clearly points out that “all the women in the book are individuals not composites” and are a product of his experience rather than his imagination. Asked about the number of women who appear in She Poems, he is surprised, “If you would have asked me off the top of my head, I would have said 12 or 13. But there are 19. These are women in my late twenties to my mid thirties to the past few years. Some women in the book I didn’t even know personally. I just saw them on the street or at work.”

The book largely celebrates Meraz’s fondness or rejection of the women he writes about in his poems. His observations are typically simple and direct. One important motif he uses is on trying to nail down what he finds attractive about the women he meets. Sometimes this is difficult. Poem 21 begins, “I am not sure/ What it/ Is// Could be/ Some/ Tone of / Voice// Or some/ Nuance/ Of/ Speech// Or a Nonchalant/ Walk/ Down the/ Street. In 29, he finds mystery and beauty in a girl in “The way/ You/ Don’t/ Smile.” In 22, he is attracted to a girl with a “Long/ Ponytail/ Nonchalant/ Like she/ Doesn’t/ Exist// But right/ Now/ She fills/ The/ Void.”

The following poem evokes the simple, spontaneous joy of staying up late with a girl and talking nonsense and not really having a care in the world:

Some memory

Of a

Girl

Who smoked

In my

Room

With

White walls

And

Laughter

White

Smoke

And

Staying up

Late

The hours

Filled with

Nonsense

That had more

Meaning

Than most

Things

Deemed

Important.

(reprinted with the poet's permission)

In She Poems, Meraz is usually writing about young love and not the banal domesticity of marriage. His descriptions of women express a tenderness in a good-humoured, affectionate way. His language is discreet and nuanced rather than erotically explicit. He treats his women with great respect and as equals, even when things fall apart.

Another important motif in the book is the need to find a balance between conversation and physical intimacy. In poem 14, he amusingly admits, “Last night/ I talked/ Too much/ To a girl/ In my/Bed// There was a/ Point when/ I knew/ I should just/ Shut/ Up.” In 30, he has an argument with his girlfriend and to dissipate the conflict she offers to come over the following week to watch a movie. He replies, “Sounds good… We were better/ At/ Cuddling/ Anyway.” In 6, Meraz recounts that in his 20s he spent some time on the streets of Long Beach talking to the preachers and painters and poets, “looking for some lighthouse.” He comes to the epiphany: “It wasn’t/ Philosophy/ I/ Needed// But/ Love.” Poem 8 offers a further take on this idea:

She says

I like your

Poems

You write about

People

And

Life

Rather than

Ideas

We need that

I think of all

The ideas and

Philosophies

I have

Learned

All the searching

I have done

I will take a

Walk hand in

Hand with a

Woman

Over that

Any

Day.

(reprinted with the poet's permission)

Meraz always has his feet planted firmly on the ground and never resorts to hyperbole or idealised notions of love. His view of love is varied but grounded in the idea that “we are all flawed.” He explains, “ As I have gotten older my view of love has changed. I used to be very idealistic when it came to love. I had this standard that was very high. Now I am more relaxed about the whole idea of love, less judgmental, more easy-going. I guess, because I understand human beings more, we are all flawed; there is no girl with the golden eyes and the golden heart out there.”

A couple of the poems express the notion that love is like an addiction or as a force of gravity which cannot be tamed. In poem 5, the speaker says he has experienced the highs and lows of love with a woman and views the relationship in gambling terms: “And like some/ Addicted/ Gambler// I put my/ Heart/ On the/ Table// One/ More/ Time// Even though/ I once/ Said// I will/ Never/ Go into that/ Casino/ Again.” In 18, an ex-girlfriend texts him and a swirl of negative thoughts amass in his mind about what had stuffed up their previous relationship. He concludes stoically that the need for love is an unstoppable and natural force like gravity and he immerses himself headlong into the relationship again, “But/ Fuck// Love is/ A law// As strong/ As/ Gravity/ You fall/ Again.”

Meraz does not shy away from the negative aspects of relationships. He deals with the issue of incompatibility, the failure of love and the illusiveness of connecting with others. Fortunately for us, Meraz does not dwell on the pain and trauma caused by break-ups; instead he sees the experience positively as a learning tool to take with him to his next relationship. As he shrewdly says when asked about his view of love,

“ There are great girls, but with everything there are downsides. It’s like you have a choice- be idealistic and lonely or relax a bit and have some fun, enjoy life, try to find the good things and attribute them to your life. I guess, that’s a lot of what this book is about. Even in the bad experiences there is humour. In heart break there is wisdom. We can go through life being conquered by it. Or we can be clever and turn the bad experiences into poems and art and have the last laugh at life.”

Another strong motif in the book is the idea of woman as muse in the creation of Meraz’s poetry. Women are seen as the inspiration for many of his poems. In poem 7, the girl with the “long dark hair” “Inspiring/ A/ Poem// At/Last.” Similarly in 28, “You stare into/ Her eyes/ She stares/ Into yours/ And love poems/ Are written/ In/ Between.” In 2, a second person poem, the couple are actually seen as “two pieces of Art.” And in 25, the entire relationship is viewed in terms of its association with literature. It concludes with the transcendent, “Everything/ Is/ Art.”

The front cover is illustrated by Toni Greis and is of a young girl with glasses painting a small red heart on her bedroom wall. Meraz saw Greis’s work on Facebook and after messaging him about She Poems Greis quickly became involved in the project.

She Poems is a candid, diverse collection of poems about fledgling relationships. The poems are clearly crafted and arranged. As you read through the collection, the words might provoke you to recall your own special moments of youthful love and innocence.

Interview with Mike Meraz 11 October 2015

Q: You have been writing for many years. Do you have a regular routine in getting it down?

I don’t have a regular routine. I basically write when an idea or poem come to me. I could be at work, or in the shower, or riding my bike. Sometimes I will be reading a book or listening to music and a memory or the first few lines of a poem will come to me and I will jot it down. But there is no routine, it is always spontaneous.

Q: How do you describe your style in 'She Poems'. To what extent are they confessional?

They are all confessional minimal poems. All the poems in the book are based on true events or at least inspired by true incidents or circumstances. I can’t write purely off imagination. My imagination works off reality. My style is very simple, I think, with complex ideas.

Q: When did you first think you had a book in the making? (For example, had you written a few poems previously and thought this was a great concept for a book?

I noticed I was writing a lot of poems about a particular girl at the time. I was going to call it “(the name of the girl) Poems” but then I started writing poems about other women in my life or had been in my life. The writing happened in a span of about 2 years. It was then I realized I had a book in the making. Also, I was writing a lot of poems with the word “she” in it. I would never mention names, just “she this...” “she that…” So that’s where the title comes from. The book basically named itself. I just went with it.

Q: How did you get it up and reading thru Epic Rites Press?

Wolf Carstens, the editor of Epic Rites Press, has been familiar with my work for some years now, probably since 2010. He has always told me if I ever have a book in the making to send it his way. When I was finally finished and comfortable with this work, I did just that. I think it took him a day or two to read it and respond with an affirmative yes. I was happy because Epic Rites is a solid press. You can just tell by the way he does things, he means business. I am glad to be on board.

Q: You appear to represent many different women in your poems. How many are there? /Are they composites or individuals?

Well, after reading this question, I actually counted and there are 19 women in the book. I was actually surprised by this number. If you would have asked me off the top of my head, I would have said 12 or 13. But there are 19. These are women from my late twenties to my mid thirties to the past few years. Some women in the book I didn’t even know personally. I just saw them on the street or at work. I am not sure what inspires a poem in me. But it is some affect in the heart and brain. But all the women in the book are individuals not composites.

Q: How did the illustrator Toni Greis get involved in this project. Was he given a brief?

I found Toni Greis through facebook. I was looking for a cover artist, and this was actually the hardest part of putting the book together. I petitioned other artists but nothing seemed to hit the mark.I wanted something that looked pro. I didn't want it to look like some small time book. I wanted it to stand up against anything you could find in a real bookstore. So I was on facebook one day and I saw some of Toni’s work and something in my mind said, ‘that’s it.” So I messaged him through facebook and after explaining to him the project, and showing him the actual illustration I wanted to use, he agreed. I was very happy when he said yes.

Q: What qualities are you looking for/ not looking for in a woman?

This is a broad question and very hard to answer. I am not looking for someone who is boring. I need someone who is exciting, fun, and dramatic. Now this does not always mean this is the easiest type of woman to be with, because passion and energy run both ways. But as a writer, this is the type of woman who holds my attention. Physically, I usually go for curvy women, but there have been exceptions. I just like passion and energy. I need someone to play off of, like a muse.

Q: In your book you show many different aspects of love. What is your view of love?

As I have gotten older my view of love has changed. I used to be very idealistic when it came to love. I had this standard that was very high. Now I am more relaxed about the whole idea of love, less judgmental, more easy-going. I guess, because I understand human beings more, we are all flawed; there is no girl with the golden eyes and the golden heart out there. There a great girls, but with everything there are downsides. It’s like you have a choice, be idealistic and lonely or relax a bit and have some fun, enjoy life, try to find the good things and attribute them to your life. I guess, that’s a lot of what the book is about. Even in the bad experiences there is humor. In heart break there is wisdom. We can go through life being conquered by it. Or we can be clever and turn the bad experiences into poems and art and have the last laugh at life.

Q: Is your blog black-listed magazine still running?

Black-Listed Mag is still up and running but I am not publishing as often as I used to. I will usually let the submissions pile up for a month or two then in one weekend post a bunch of stuff. But it is still there. I have thought about ditching it because it does take up time. But then I think it’s still a cool site for good underground poetry.

Q: What's next for you?

I have another book in the works about the writer’s life. I am not sure when this will be out as I have yet to actually put it together. But there are about 40 poems in the vault that I think would make a good book. It’d be in the same style as She Poems, very minimal, confessional poems. I am hoping to have it out by 2017. For now, I am concentrating on She Poems. So far it has done better than expected, so I am excited about it.

Purchase your copy of She Poems here: http://www.freewebstore.org/Tree-Killer-Ink/product/she-poems

↧

Featuring Allison Grayhurst

October 14, 2015, 3:43 am

≫ Next: Featuring Henry Denander

≪ Previous: Book Review/ Interview: Mike Meraz She Poems (Epic Rites Press, 2015) 33 pages

Needle

Would it be power or the soft faith

of idolatry that brought you empty-handed

upon this Earth?

Because your history is poison to my heavier

heaven, I should be running parallel to your great

evolution, but I am not.

Your moods are total, obsessive as fungi -

growing shallow until everything is blinded

under your curtain. I used to love you - the facts

in your brain, your anti-cultural immaturity, your freedom

from the process. You, only tied to the result. I used to stay

up all night, half-a-human, fumbling through books for a deeper

education. I used to be becoming, not this hard

calcified thing dependent on your reflection - a slave

to your dragon, to your brutal needs.

You used my brokenness to mould yourself a follower.

I followed you, but now that

is over.

Little

In the little things

that fatten a day with petulant

injustices. In the basic things

like the lies in a newspaper or the

nonchalant acceptance of privilege,

history sinks and degenerates – a little

something, a base something growing to encumber

the oval whole without constraint. Patronizing as presents,

given gifts from the world-travelled to the poor who are stuck with

store-bought cans and hardships that leave no space for frivolity or

such easeful distractions.

A little now to the right, and symphonies that neglect the dark muse

of its creator. Van Gough on placemats, and there now, there now,

smile for the camera and make yourself as someone

special, worthy of your elitist smirk – a masterpiece of fiction –

one side, one belief, a derelict of denial to the little things

that demand so much courage to just muddle through.

Last Beat

It is a prolonged death,

a rotted tooth that hasn’t been pulled.

Evenings of blasphemy, steeling bitterness back

to inhabit my upper gut.

I fumbled, then ripped the barriers – better off

hard and sure of the fire I was stoking.

Then softness crept in, like a pregnant mother

falling prey to a sentimental moment. Love

I called it. But it was a city of angst I unleashed,

twisted veins and cramped-up toes. Let it die

and be done with. I will not be owned by obligation

or highways and highways of mundane houses and the people

that live in them – insensitive to devotion, to savage need

and to pilgrimage. Joy

is where I am free. Beside the crystals forming,

savouring the voice that always guides me. And it

guides me to tear off my clothes, relax my arms and to

yes, yes, please

let go.

Crowned

The large June light

is woven with the clouds

like a wind to steal away all breathing.

And on the moving earth, lawnmowers

roar and little snails crawl across

the wet pavement.

There are no more dreams, only this

woodchip swallowed and the bright water

cared for.

The fog has shown me my substance.

I eat my plums whole and wish

for my child everything tender and alive.

I feel the breeze through the window, taking

the curves, turning me over like a patch

of rotted grass. I am now beginning to be collected,

to answer to this new name and see my past

through a fearless eye. I feel the kick

of a new vision formed and feel the gentlest mercy

roll down my chest like a kitten.

This is lunch, an autumn leaf waxed and the laundry dried.

Give me birth. My body skips across the edge,

and all good things are finally waking.

Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 690 poems published in over 325 international journals. She has eleven published books of poetry, seven collections, seven chapbooks, and a chapbook pending publication. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

↧

Featuring Henry Denander

October 17, 2015, 1:39 am

≫ Next: New Release: Stories by Charles Bukowski The Bell Tolls for No One. City Lights Books, San Francisco, 2015 (308 pages). Edited with an Introduction by David Stephen Calonne.

≪ Previous: Featuring Allison Grayhurst

Call The Police

When we moved in to this flat our upstairs

neighbor still had his three teenage kids living

with him, since then the children have moved out

and it’s very quiet.

They had a lot of parties and were sometimes

really loud. The father was on tour in the summer

and every weekend there was a party upstairs.

But we never complained, they were dancing and

singing and for us there was no real problem.

They were always really kind and well behaved –

just young and happy. The father asked me once

if there was a problem when he was away and I

never grumbled, only told him that please if he

could hide that trumpet when he leaves next time.

One evening I went up there to protest but it was

not a party it was the son Calle playing his

electric guitar with the amplifier extremely loud

and his room was right above our bedroom.

One morning I met Calle and his sister in the lift

and we talked about everything but never

mentioned the party they had last weekend.

Suddenly Calle said:

– I can hear you snoring from below, you must be

snoring really loud.

- Yes, perhaps I do, I said.

I realized I have been too kind to them, I should

have been more militant. They have no respect

for me. Next time I will call the police.

Before they do.

Via Formia

At the train station in Naples we

notice that the next train to

Rome travels via Formia and

that’s where we want to get off.

This was better than we thought,

two hours and we

will be there.

On the way on the train we

are paying for our tickets and

we discover that the train will go

directly to Rome.

But, we say, it said “Via Formia” on the

big sign.

Yes, the train will pass Formia but

it will not stop there.

We had to go all the way to Rome and

then back again.

This is charming when you are on holiday but

this would never happen here in Sweden,

of course.

But here in Sweden there is no

place called Formia,

only places like Eskilstuna and Nässjö,

where trains seldom stop anyway.

Man of many talents

He is one of my best friends and he used to be my boss at the record

company where I worked for many years. He is a remarkable man

with an enormous experience from the music industry, a well-known

authority and a very respected man in the music business all over the

world.

Among his many talents is being able to fall asleep almost

everywhere, especially after dinner but even at meetings that drag on

too long. He is an expert also in this field; the way he wears his

glasses and his upright posture conceal that he is sleeping. At many

late night dinners he has managed to take a nap without anyone

noticing.

His main accomplishment was at a concert with the band Motörhead,

an early metal band playing with an intensely loud volume. When the

lead singer Lemmy looked down at the front row he noticed my friend

the director of the record company taking a nap in the middle of the

song.

That time it was obvious that he was sleeping. But I think even

Lemmy must have been impressed.

Chet Baker at Fasching

Chet Baker came to Stockholm to play the Fasching Jazz Club.

He called and I went to see him at his hotel. We had spent some

time together in London the year before and he was one of my

jazz heroes.

At the Salvation Army hotel I was shown to his room but Chet

hardly wanted to open the door, he just took the recordings I

brought him and we chatted briefly. He had a friend in there, a

Swedish jazz musician and the hotel room was filled with sweet

and heavy smoke. I left and we said we would talk more at the

jazz club that night.

In between sets at Fasching I tried to get in contact with Chet

but his friend was really nervous and the same sweet smoke

came out of Chet’s dressing room. I said hi to Chet & his band

but soon the Swedish friend closed the door.

I was the financial director of Chet’s record company in

Sweden; I was a bean counter but not a police officer. Chet

knew this, we had been drunk together in London, but his friend

from Sweden maybe thought I was with the drug enforcement

agency.

I left them and went back to my friends at the bar and got drunk

on beer and Jaegermeister.

Chet’s playing that night at Fasching was absolutely beautiful,

the tone of his trumpet and voice was so very soft and he

sounded better than ever.

Or maybe it was just because we were

high, Chet and I?

Revenge (in the morning)

I wake up and notice that our son has (as every

night) moved to our bed in the early hours of the

morning. My wife is still sleeping and snoring

softly and William is sleeping with his head five

centimeters from my wife’s face and he is also

snoring slowly.

How come my snoring is always such a problem?

Marie says that they can’t sleep because of my

snoring and William says the same.

If I had been really cruel and looking for revenge

I would have wakened them up now accusing

them both of snoring.

But I am not like that.

Not this time.

Bio: HENRY DENANDER was born in 1952 and shares his time between Stockholm, Sweden and Hydra, Greece. He is an artist and a poet and his latest book “The Accidental Navigator” was published by Lummox Press. He has two forthcoming publications from Pig Ear Press. He has a website with poetry and art at www.henrydenander.com.

↧

New Release: Stories by Charles Bukowski The Bell Tolls for No One. City Lights Books, San Francisco, 2015 (308 pages). Edited with an Introduction by David Stephen Calonne.

October 18, 2015, 9:48 pm

≫ Next: Short Book Review/ Multiple Choice Quiz: Sylvie Simmons I’M YOUR MAN: The Life of LEONARD COHEN. Jonathan Cape, London, 2012 (546 pages).

≪ Previous: Featuring Henry Denander

This is the fourth book of collected writings published by City Lights and edited by Professor Calonne. It follows Portions From a Wine-Stained Notebook(2008), Absence of the Hero (2010) and More Notes of a Dirty Old Man: The Uncollected Columns (2011). The latest pocket-sized volume consists of 44 stories, most of which first appeared in L.A. Free Press as part of Bukowski’s iconic Notes of a Dirty Old Man newspaper column.

The full breakdown is as follows according to the bibliography at the end of the book:

#	Originally published	Year
25	L.A. Free Press	1972-1976
4	Fling	1971-1972
4	Oui	1984-1985
3	Hustler	1978-1985
2	Open City	1967-1968
2	Nola Express	1971-1972
2	unpublished	1948, 1979
1	Kauri	1966
1	Congress	1967

The Bell Tolls for No One takes its name from the last short story in the book, first published in Ouimagazine. In the story nothing goes right for Henry Chinaski, Bukowski’s alter-ego. He is mistakenly abducted by thugs, hand-cuffed, savagely bashed and his left ear blown off. Left in the woods and still hand-cuffed, a wild dog sets on him. The story ironically ends, “I ran forward, kicked out and missed, fell to my side, rolled over just in time as the flash of fangs ripped the quiet air, I got to my feet and faced the thing again, thinking, this must happen all the time to everybody…one way or the other…” The title is an obvious allusion to Ernest Hemingway’s novel For Whom the Bell Tolls, one of Bukowski’s literary heroes. In the case of the people who inhabit Bukowski’s world, nothing falls into place for them.

This collection is better than I imagined but because Bukowski spent most of life writing and rewriting about key moments in his life, you get the impression that you have read many of these stories before. As Calonne points out in his fine Introduction (see the link to it below), “Several of the stories included in this volume demonstrate how he worked and reworked his material. He creates the same narrative anew; he doesn’t copy, but starts over. He is always telling his autobiography but selecting different details, reinventing instead of rewriting.” He uses the example of the excellent short story ‘An Affair of Very Little Importance’ about Mercedes which appears in a different version in his novel Women. The story ‘I Just Write Poetry So I Can Go to Bed With Girls’ appears in a Dirty Old Man column in this volume as well.

Many of the stories are finely crafted portraits or focussed on dysfunctional relationships, including ‘Dancing Nina’, ‘Save the World’, ‘The Lady with the Legs’ and several other untitled pieces from the ‘Notes of a Dirt Old Man’ archives. In his Introduction Calonne emphases that a central element of Bukowski’s content and style is to poke fun at the absurdity of romantic love and the sexual politics of the time, “Message parlours, a pornographer engaging in late-night discussions with his wife, adult bookshops, older women picking up younger men: the entire panoply of the fading sexual revolution is held up to satire and ridicule.”

Also of great interest is the inclusion of The Way the Dead Love (pages 29-58) the beginnings of a novel John Martin urged Bukowski to write in 1966. Several chapters were published in magazines, including this five- part excerpt which first appeared in Congress in 1967.

Arguably the best stories in the collection are those in which Bukowski temporarily abandons his over-written life story and focuses more on dredging up the gold of his febrile imagination. The satirical ‘A Day in the Life of an Adult Bookstore Clerk’, the investigations into criminal behaviour in ‘Break-In’ and ‘Fly the Friendly Skies’ immediately come to mind. The best & craziest short story in the collection is the Cold War masterpiece ‘A Dirty Trick on God.’ It begins with Harry Greb, an assembly line packer sitting in a bathtub drinking a beer. He farts and then the bubbles rise to form a “sponge thing with seaweed arms, blue eyes, blond hair.” This is an extremely funny story with a message. You may be able to read it on Google Books.

Where to buy the book. Also find the Introduction by David Stephen Calonne and pages 1-38 here:

http://www.citylights.com/book/?GCOI=87286100311630

↧

Short Book Review/ Multiple Choice Quiz: Sylvie Simmons I’M YOUR MAN: The Life of LEONARD COHEN. Jonathan Cape, London, 2012 (546 pages).

October 23, 2015, 3:57 am

≫ Next: Another new entry on Cold War novels

≪ Previous: New Release: Stories by Charles Bukowski The Bell Tolls for No One. City Lights Books, San Francisco, 2015 (308 pages). Edited with an Introduction by David Stephen Calonne.

This biography provides a chronological account of Leonard Cohen’s personal and professional lives. It establishes the context and reception of each one of his books, albums and tours. Simmons, a renowned music journalist, also provides a critical analysis of his texts and details how Cohen carefully assembled bands to promote his albums.

The book also incorporates many extended conversations with Cohen which have been placed in italics. These were mostly conducted by Simmons in 2011 and therefore allows Cohen to comment in depth on many important moments in his life from the distance of time.

In this very thick book I was most fascinated in Cohen’s development as a poet & singer/ songwriter and in the discussion of many of his poems and songs. It is amazing how Cohen struggled with and detested the writing process as well as heaving up the spirit to sing material he wrote years ago. As he elaborates in the chapter ‘The Veins Stand Out Like Highways’, “I wrote the songs to myself and to women several years ago and it is a curious thing to be trapped in that original effort, because here I wanted to tell one person one thing and now I am in a situation where I must repeat them like some parrot chained to his stand, night after night.” Cohen also often saw his work as inadequate, as just not good enough for his fans, “Often one’s best work is at the time considered inadequate or incompetent. I certainly struggled with those notions, and not just as a writer- but, as any man or woman locates a large component of their self-respect in their work, it’s always an issue.”

Less intriguing to me were aspects of his personal life, such as his bouts with anxiety & depression, his conversion to Zen Buddhism, how he was swindled out of several millions, and of course, his numerous relationships with beautiful, young women- even as an old man.

If you like Cohen’s work you will certainly be impressed by this biography.

Instead of writing an extended review I want to do something different. I want to test your general knowledge of Leonard Cohen- that is, if you are interested.

Some questions and answers will be obvious, others you will find tricky or obscure. You will also find sometimes that more than one answer will apply to the question. But stuff it- it’s only a quiz! For each question you will have to choose the BEST answer. In one question all the answers are correct. In this instance on your answer sheet write “all of the above.”

Note that all answers are final & are based on the contents of Sylvie Simmons book I’m Your Man: The life of Leonard Cohen. No discussion will be entered into any of the results. Undertake additional research if you are so inclined. The main thing is to have fun and to not take the quiz too seriously.

If you think you know the answer to ALL 25 questions fill out the Leonard Cohen Answer Sheet below, cut & paste & email it to me. I’ll send out a book to the first person who gets every answer correct. I will post the correct answers below in early December.

LEONARD COHEN ANSWER SHEET

NAME:

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

23.

24.
25.

A LEONARD COHEN QUIZ

Part A: MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. What did Leonard Cohen’s mother tell him to do when things got bad?

( a)to take a cold shower

(b)to take a series of long deep breaths

(d)to think positive
(e)to get a new girlfriend

2. Cohen first began writing poetry in earnest after he read:

(a)Neruda

(b)Steve McCaffery

(d)Lorca

(e)Wallace Stevens

3. What drew Cohen to poetry?

(a)the power and beauty of the condensed form

(b)it helped him to find enlightenment

(d)it allowed him to skip regular school classes

(e)to make music out of words

4. Who does Cohen consider to be Canada’s greatest champion of poetry?

(a)Louis Dudek

(b)Margaret Atwood

(d)Leonard Cohen

(e)Al Purdy

5. Which of the following Canadian awards did Cohen decline:

(a)Peterson Memorial Award

(b)Governor General’s Award for Literature

(d)Juno Hall of Fame

(e)Canadian Music Hall of Fame

6. While studying law at McGill University in Montreal, after what event did LC realise that an academic life was not for him?

(a) after he received his grades in his final year

(b) after looking in a mirror he couldn’t see his own reflection

(d) after a particularly boring lecture on commercial law

(e) after seeing how badly cut the suits were on many of his professors during an end of year piss-up

7. What is the name of Cohen’s first collection of poetry in 1956:

(a) Let us Compare Mythologies

(b) Beautiful Losers

(c) Flowers for Hitler

(d) Songs From A Room

(e) Songs of Love and Hate

8. In which of the following events did Cohen NOT appear:

(a)when Kerouac read his stuff accompanied by jazz mussos at the Village Vanguard in New York in December 1957

(b)in Havana on the day of the Bay of Pigs invasion 17 April 1961

(c) before their Isle of Wight 1970 concert his band played before patients at Napa State mental hospital & the actor Dennis Hooper freaked out & fled as he saw the patients approaching

(d)Cohen was a pall-bearer at the funeral of Pierre Ellioitt Trudeau’s funeral in 2000.

(e)At the start of the Yom Kippur War in October 1973 Cohen flew to Tel Aviv to enlist in the Israeli Army

9. In the early 1960s Cohen first met the Australian novelist George Johnston (My Brother Jack) in:

(a)L.A.

(b)Melbourne

(d)Montreal

(e)Hydra

10. Which woman was Cohen’s ‘people’s choice’ for best muse?

(a)Suzanne Verdal

(b)Joni Mitchell

(d)Suzanne Vaillancourt

(e)Suzanne Elrod

11.Early in his writing career (early 1960s) what was Cohen’s favourite drug of assistance & companionship?

(a)Maxiton

(b)weed

(d)Mandrax

(e)Hashish

12.Which of the following novel titles was NOT considered for use by Cohen?

(a) Fields of Hair

(b) No Flesh So Perfect

(c) A Ballet of Lepers

(d) Come As You Are

(e) Beauty At Close Quarters

13. According to the 1965 National Film Board of Canada documentary film Ladies and Gentlemen… Mr Leonard Cohen, Cohen’s first concern when he wakes up in the morning is?

( a)to discover who he has been sleeping with

(b)to work out what’s for breakfast

(d)to call his mother Masha

(e)to discover if he is in a state of grace

14.Why did LC decide to become a singer-songwriter in the summer of 1965?

( a)he liked country music

(b)he could get it off with more women

(d)his books weren’t selling and he needed the brass

(e)he wanted to become the Canadian Dylan

15. Which celebrity did Cohen NOT meet when he was living at the Chelsea Hotel in New York?

(a) Andy Warhol

(b) Pierre Elliott Trudeau

(d) Lou Reed

(e) Jackson Browne

16. Cohen immortalised a Janis Joplin blow-job in this song:

(a) Chelsea Hotel #2

(b) Early Morning Rise

(d) Bird On the Wire

(e) A Thousand Kisses Deep

17. By 1970 how many trips of acid has Leonard Cohen reckoned he has taken?

(a)0

(b) 3

(d) 300

(e) 3000

18. Which Bukowski book was seen by the author on Leonard Cohen’s bookshelf?

(a) Women

(b) The Pleasures of the Damned

(d) Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit

(e) You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense

19. Which of the following quotes is NOT attributed to Leonard Cohen:

(a) “War is wonderful. They’ll never stamp it out. It’s one of the few times people can act their best.”

(b) “I think marrying is for very, very high-minded people. It is a discipline of extreme severity. To really turn your back on all other possibilities and all other experiences of love, of passion, of ecstasy, and to determine to find it within one embrace is a high and righteous notion.”

(d) “ Reworking a song before an audience is like being locked in a room with an old love you once considered beautiful.”

(e) “I had a special communion with daisies. They would turn their little yellow faces to me whenever I started singing. They would all turn towards me and smile.”

20. What is not a published criticism of Cohen’s art?

(a) “He has the inspired and fragile air of a nasty cough.”

(b) “It is like two strangers frantically making love in a shadowy hotel bedroom.”

(d) “It’s music to slit your wrists by.”

(e)“He sounded like a sad man cashing in on self-pity and adolescent loneliness.”

21. What is NOT the name of a Leonard Cohen song?

(a) Don’t Go Home With Your Hard-On

(b) Paper-Thin Motel

(c) I Guess It’s Time

(d) Beauty Salon

(e) New Skin

22. Paul Body, the doorman for the famous West Hollywood folk club had this to say about Cohen in 1975:

(a) “You’d better check the bathroom for razor blades, because this stuff is real depressing.”

(b) “I think he’s getting old. His throat is going.”

(d) “He reminded me of the American actor Dustin Hoffman.”

(e) “The band was incredibly tight but earned only a lukewarm reception at best.”

23. On reflection, which one of his albums does Cohen like the best?

(a) Various Positions

(b) Field Commander Cohen

(d) I’m Your Man

(e) Death of a Lady’s Man

24. Which of the following statement is NOT true?

(a) The song Hallelujah took 5 years to write.

(b) Cohen wrote 15 different versions of the last verse of the song.

(c) The album in which the song first appeared Various Positions remains Cohen’s best selling album in the United States.

(d) The song has been covered more than 300 times, including Bob Dylan, Bono, Neil Diamond and Matt Morris from the Mickey Mouse Club.

(e) The song is about the reasons for and the mechanics of songwriting and about wanting sex and having sex and about the war of the sexes.

25. Which trusted friend swindled Cohen of funds estimated between 10-13 million dollars?

(a) Joni Mitchell

(b) Joshua Sasaki Roshi

(d) Dominique Issermann

(e) Steve Sanfield

END OF QUIZ

↧

Another new entry on Cold War novels

October 27, 2015, 12:19 am

≫ Next: New post: Cold War Films- Bridge of Spies

≪ Previous: Short Book Review/ Multiple Choice Quiz: Sylvie Simmons I’M YOUR MAN: The Life of LEONARD COHEN. Jonathan Cape, London, 2012 (546 pages).

Find the latest entry to this valuable & growing Cold War BM post here: https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2898768564399502953#editor/target=post;postID=5077914493296447050;onPublishedMenu=posts;onClosedMenu=posts;postNum=127;src=link

↧

New post: Cold War Films- Bridge of Spies

October 30, 2015, 2:21 am

≫ Next: New Release: Wolfgang Carstens/ Janne Karlsson RENTED MULE. Night Ballet Press, 2015.

≪ Previous: Another new entry on Cold War novels

Short comment/ no spoilers: http://georgedanderson.blogspot.com.au/2013/01/after-bomb-best-cold-war-films.html

↧

New Release: Wolfgang Carstens/ Janne Karlsson RENTED MULE. Night Ballet Press, 2015.

November 1, 2015, 10:41 pm

≫ Next: Guy De Maupassant Pierre & Jean (1888)

≪ Previous: New post: Cold War Films- Bridge of Spies

A Message from Wolfgang Carstens:

Hello my friends,

I am massively proud to announce the release of RENTED MULE from NightBallet Press. The book features 21 poems by yours truly, 15 illustrations by Janne Karlsson, and wicked cover art by Jeffery Alfier. RENTED MULE is $10 plus shipping and can be purchased from NightBallet Press.

The book page at NightBallet Press, which includes a sample poem from the book, a reading of that poem by yours truly, and the ordering link is here: http://nightballetpress.blogspot.ca/2015/10/presenting-rented-mule-poems-by.html?spref=fb

A reading of "Trilok" here: https://youtu.be/YH8-OXKJy44

I am ultimately proud of this new themed collection of "work poems," but more importantly, whenever a publisher invests their time and money and blood, sweat and tears to release a volume of my work, I am indebted to do everything in my power to bring home a winner. In this case, it's Dianne Borsenik, the mastermind behind NightBallet Press. So there's my pitch, my friends. I really hope you take a chance on RENTED MULE and put it an order today.

Here's what's been said about the book so far:

"This slim collection of unadorned, narrative poems...and dark, heartbreaking drawings...belongs in the back pockets of all who suffer the soul-crushing teeth of the daily or nightly grind."

—Rob Plath, AX FOR THE FROZEN SEA

"Wolf Carstens takes us down the dark avenues of a strange world and the haunting reverberations of the MegaMart, the hopelessness of being a "rented mule."...Janne Karlsson's artwork enhances this strange and supercharged landscape."
—

Tony Moffeit,

PUEBLO BLUES

Please forward this message to anyone you think might be interested.

Thank you for your support, my friends!

↧

Guy De Maupassant Pierre & Jean (1888)

November 6, 2015, 2:20 am

≫ Next: Book Review: Charles Bukowsk SOUTH OF NO NORTH: Stories of the buried Life. Black Sparrow Press, Santa Barbara, 1973 (189 pages).

≪ Previous: New Release: Wolfgang Carstens/ Janne Karlsson RENTED MULE. Night Ballet Press, 2015.

Find a short review of De Maupassant's novel as an addition to my analysis of his brilliant Bel-Ami here: http://georgedanderson.blogspot.com.au/2011/01/book-review-guy-de-maupassant-bel-ami.html

↧

Book Review: Charles Bukowsk SOUTH OF NO NORTH: Stories of the buried Life. Black Sparrow Press, Santa Barbara, 1973 (189 pages).

November 12, 2015, 2:55 am

≫ Next: Doug Draime R.I.P.

≪ Previous: Guy De Maupassant Pierre & Jean (1888)

I have reread this collection of short stories twice recently and reckon it contains an incredible variety amongst its 27 stories. South of No North is sandwiched between two important books in the Bukowski canon, the short story collection Erections, Ejaculations, Exhibitions and General Tales of Ordinary Madness (1972) and the poetry collection Burning In Water Drowning In Flame (1974). Two of the short stories which appear in the book ‘All the Assholes in the World and Mine’ (1966) and ‘Confessions of a Man Insane Enough to Live With Beasts’ (1965) were originally published as chapbooks by Douglas Blazek. Some of the other short stories were first published in his columns for the Los Angeles Free Press and in the underground newspaper NOLA Express. The story ‘The Way the Dead Love’ contains sections from Bukowski’s abandoned novel which John Martin of Black Sparrow Press asked him to write in 1966.

The title, as David Stephen Calonne writes in his short Critical Lives study Charles Bukowski “suggests the directionlessness of many of his characters: they have no way to orient themselves.”

A majority of the stories are written from the point of view of Henri Chinaski, Bukowski’s alter-ego. Several of the short stories are auto-biographical, including ‘Bop Bop That Curtain’ (childhood entertainment in L.A. during the 1930s), ‘Politics’ (Buk’s involvement in Nazism during his L.A. College days), ‘Remember Pearl Harbour’ (when Buk was imprisoned during World War 2 and suspected of avoiding military service), ‘This is What Killed Dylan Thomas (about a poetry reading in San Francisco) and ‘All the Assholes in the World and Mine’ which he famously recounts his painful haemorrhoid operation).

Overall, The writing in this book has a remarkable spontaneous feel to it, that anything can and will happen in the crude inventive hands of Bukowski.

Read the book online here: http://yanko.lib.ru/books/lit/bukowski.htm

Here’s my take on the best 10 short stories in SOUTH OF NO NORTH:

(10) Confessions of a Man Insane Enough to Live With Beasts

Although you can get bored shitless reading Bukowski’s heavily auto-biographical short stories because of their sameness, this is a stand-out story in the shaping of the legend. In a series of vignettes, it takes us through some of the threshold experiences in his life, including his battle with Acne Vulgaris, how Buk almost bleed to death in the Charity Ward of the Los Angeles County Hospital in 1954, his work in a variety of dead-end jobs, his life with crazy women on skid row and his struggle to become a professional writer.

(9) Something About a Viet Cong Flag

Bukowski was fascinated with criminal behaviour and in many of his short stories he explored various aspects of crime from predators to the criminally insane. This story focuses on the rape of a woman Sally. The matter-of-fact tone is disquieting as seemingly ordinary events turn sinister.‘ The Killers’, Hit Man’ and to a lesser extent, ‘Maja Thurup’ are other crime stories you will find in this collection.

(8) You and Your Beer and How Great You Are

This is third person story about Jack Backenweld, a light-heavyweight boxer and his relationship with women. The dialogue is highly credible, and like much of Bukowski’s work, drives the story.

(7) Christ on Rollerskates

This is a satirical sports story. It begins with the owner and vice-president of the Yellowjackets, a Roller Derby team, interviewing a star player, Monster Chonjacki. The humour operates on many levels and centres on the cynical idea that the violence in the sport is faked and the fans “love to be fooled. ”

(6) The Way the Dead Love

These vignettes from his unpublished novel graphically represent Bukowsk’s “lost years” on skid-row in L.A. The heavy drinking, moving from one rooming house to the next and the mad, desperate characters he meets are credibly described. More importantly, it is the dark days, Chinaski’s reoccurring nightmares, the black dog contemplation of suicide, the “walking through a sea of fire” which make this story immortal, particularly in section 6.

(5) Stop Staring at My Tits, Mister

This is a brilliant sexual spoof on the American Western. Big Bart is the meanest, most misogynistic man in the West. “There wasn’t a man his age who had killed more Indians or fucked more women or killed more white men… Even his farts were exceptional.” This is another of Bukowski’s hyperbolic male fantasies- full-on hilarious with plenty of mad one-liners.

(4) The Devil Was Hot

This is another outstanding short story cleverly crafted by Bukowski. The narrator, presumably Chinaski and his partner Flo arrive at an amusement park where a circus entrepreneur, Ernie Jamestown is showcasing the Devil in one of his freak shows. This is tight, humorous writing. Bukowski at his best!

(3) Maja Thurup

This is an unusual direction for Bukowski. It is about a lady, Hester Adams who returns from South America with a cannibal, Maja Thurup, who no girl from his village would accept. Apparently “he had torn two girls to death with his instrument. One had been entered from the front, the other from the rear. No matter.” What follows is another crazy fling into Bukowsi’s overhung madness.

(2) Love for $17.50

This is a surreal story about Robert Wilkinson who falls in love with a mannequin he calls Stella. Despite having a couple of girlfriends, Robert prefers Stella’s company and falls in love with her. Bukowski makes a shrewd, highly entertaining commentary on contemporary relationships between men and women.

( (1) No Way to Paradise

One of Bukowski’s best ever short stories! Hank is in a bar and meets Dawn who keeps four three inch people in her purse who bitch and moan and fuck each other when hot. As they do it they make Dawn and Hank hot as well. Another satirical, and highly amusing take on the ins and outs of relationships.

Buy the book here: http://www.amazon.com/South-No-North-Stories-Buried/dp/0876851898

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