1summer 2011

In T

hIs

Issu

eJosiah Spence Depth Of Field

Damien Frost If You Have A Moment

Driving To Town Late…

Nona

Inheritance

Dishonest Machines

Faby Georges Para Ver

John Vecchiarelli Three Haiku

I Burn Out Bulbs

Martin Monahan Dusk

Frederic J Greenall Jealousy Is A Hot Light Bulb

Feeharmony

Antonio Renaud Her Ark

A View, In Lieu…

Estlin Thomas Coming Closer

Credits

Josiah SpenceDepTh of fIelD

f /1.4 snap. shutter. brash youth assumptions all blurred.

f /2.8 whir. click. brute manhandled mishap. a bludgeon of certitude.

f /4 flash. pop. blind moment and after image. the cinder-smell of afterwards.

f /8 recompose.

f /16 think about it this time.

f /32 develop. dark room. silence and time.

f /64 exposed.

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Josiah SpenceDepTh of fIelD

f /1.4 snap. shutter. brash youth assumptions all blurred.

f /2.8 whir. click. brute manhandled mishap. a bludgeon of certitude.

f /4 flash. pop. blind moment and after image. the cinder-smell of afterwards.

f /8 recompose.

f /16 think about it this time.

f /32 develop. dark room. silence and time.

f /64 exposed.

Damien FrostIf You have a momenT

If you and your hands aren’t too busy twirling your hair or setting dials on clocks or staring into the spinning washing machine that you close your eyes and lean into to breathe in the clean steam rising up from the water that churns, simmering against the smooth, blue metal; if you have a moment, after adding what you know to be far too much water to the row of anxious ghostflowers in the window box, who’ve taken to wearing waterwings

and reciting prayers to St. Brendan, that he might soothe the rising tides with his salty, placid palms; perhaps you could find the time to send me a letter, a postcard, a stamp covered with your tiny, uniform script telling me how you’ve been lately, and more importantly, how I should be by now, it being nearly December, and the days not getting any warmer, despite the heat of the hissing fire in the wood-stove—also, whether it is okay that I still eat dinner by candlelight, mostly alone.

Damien FrostDrIvIng To Town laTe To maIl a leTTer

Lunch at three o’clock with so and so, cold chowder whose intent was to enfeeble me (and I think it does all right—it gets by). There was an accident near the park, no one was hurt, well maybe they were I don’t know, I wasn’t really watching— might be that it was no accident at all. All day, all afternoon, most of the evening—parts of those moments as the horizon is struck gilt and sort of whispering about tomorrow, or yesterday, depending on who you think to ask—I had your letter folded crosswise in my jacket and thought it reasonable to reply, so I am. On the bus into town I wear my driving gloves because it’s nice to pretend and if someone asks I can always say I’ve just come from the stables where I’d had a brisk ride and they’ll look away flummoxed and I can carry on imagining myself clever and knowing that if you were here you’d be laughing and so I’m happy. At the mailbox there is snow in the slot and a bird nearby complains about the cold and I feel for him and his dark feathers which I imagine are not well suited for this weather so I offer him my scarf; when you get this please think no less of me or if possible maybe a little more.

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Damien FrostDrIvIng To Town laTe To maIl a leTTer

Lunch at three o’clock with so and so, cold chowder whose intent was to enfeeble me (and I think it does all right—it gets by). There was an accident near the park, no one was hurt, well maybe they were I don’t know, I wasn’t really watching— might be that it was no accident at all. All day, all afternoon, most of the evening—parts of those moments as the horizon is struck gilt and sort of whispering about tomorrow, or yesterday, depending on who you think to ask—I had your letter folded crosswise in my jacket and thought it reasonable to reply, so I am. On the bus into town I wear my driving gloves because it’s nice to pretend and if someone asks I can always say I’ve just come from the stables where I’d had a brisk ride and they’ll look away flummoxed and I can carry on imagining myself clever and knowing that if you were here you’d be laughing and so I’m happy. At the mailbox there is snow in the slot and a bird nearby complains about the cold and I feel for him and his dark feathers which I imagine are not well suited for this weather so I offer him my scarf; when you get this please think no less of me or if possible maybe a little more.

Damien Frostnona

Who better than she to coil up these stretching, dark moments of winter round and round the whirling spindle as she mends my sweater and snow breathes quietly in the whitened yard where I stand wrapped up in patient fog, ice hung round my bones and love in my pockets?

Damien FrostInherITance

This paper sea of blue flowers, this watercolor air hung heavy with warm, yellowing salt and flattened brass; notes of some aged, dark oil that fled as smoke from abandoned machines left to molder in taped boxes stacked in open closets, the row of windows that sang harmonies of betrayal when the wind told them its secrets, your confidences lent to cupboards though there was starlight, books with books of words blueing in the margins, the evenly-spaced sparrows that chattered wing-in-wing along the lowering gable; these things were yours. But I have swept up in my arms the rooms that held your smell, the sheets that warmed you while you slept or were with fever and could not stop shaking; I have gathered up all of your empty shoes, your knives bent by the inept violence whispering along their dull edges, your sealed, stamp-less letters addressed to aeronauts and their sibling satellites whom you adored, though they were always no nearer than distant; I have inherited your abbreviated notes, your fingerprints murmuring on locked doorknobs, the maps which showed the way along those rain-slick roads that lead you so far from me.

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Damien FrostInherITance

This paper sea of blue flowers, this watercolor air hung heavy with warm, yellowing salt and flattened brass; notes of some aged, dark oil that fled as smoke from abandoned machines left to molder in taped boxes stacked in open closets, the row of windows that sang harmonies of betrayal when the wind told them its secrets, your confidences lent to cupboards though there was starlight, books with books of words blueing in the margins, the evenly-spaced sparrows that chattered wing-in-wing along the lowering gable; these things were yours. But I have swept up in my arms the rooms that held your smell, the sheets that warmed you while you slept or were with fever and could not stop shaking; I have gathered up all of your empty shoes, your knives bent by the inept violence whispering along their dull edges, your sealed, stamp-less letters addressed to aeronauts and their sibling satellites whom you adored, though they were always no nearer than distant; I have inherited your abbreviated notes, your fingerprints murmuring on locked doorknobs, the maps which showed the way along those rain-slick roads that lead you so far from me.

Damien FrostDIshonesT machInes

From her sick, sick heart a cough echoes to the sea, where it chews on rocks. His feet lay out beyond the sand where they are drunk by the Baltic, swallowed by blue liquid. A conch shell sings of its twisting emptinesses, of its voids; —she and he—they hear separate songs. Their two coastal bodies bend; they tremble for different reasons, their suns are of different whitenesses. Their evenings are of different temperatures, and both of them—she and he— dishonest machines.

Faby Georgespara ver

Me puedes ver? With her eyes closed she asked me if I could see her. I smiled. I can always see you.

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Faby Georgespara ver

Me puedes ver? With her eyes closed she asked me if I could see her. I smiled. I can always see you.

John VecchiarelliThree haIku

crane swoops into frame marvels at my weight on earth flies away content

outstretched open hand remains so, in glove or bare waits for new season

black dog squints and basks lapping up the day’s last light on short winter’s day

John VecchiarelliI Burn ouT BulBs

I burn out bulbs when I pass by Streetlights, lamps, flicker and dim Just a moment’s release, and a well-earned sigh To light another’s path, another sky

I need no shadow to walk beside Just the steady cadence of foot and limb And the welcome time to ponder why I burn out bulbs when I pass by

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John VecchiarelliI Burn ouT BulBs

I burn out bulbs when I pass by Streetlights, lamps, flicker and dim Just a moment’s release, and a well-earned sigh To light another’s path, another sky

I need no shadow to walk beside Just the steady cadence of foot and limb And the welcome time to ponder why I burn out bulbs when I pass by

Martin MonahanDusk

Nothing— then an accident of light, All and all and all blisters into sudden coarse and conflagrated night,

until it dampens to a sky marked with streaks of cirrus cloud, as if a pair of winter boots left drying, salt stained, the leather cracked and black.

Frederic J GreenallJealousY Is a hoT lIghT BulB

Jealousy is a hot light bulb; A glaring beacon in a poorly decorated room, Trying not to draw attention to the shabby walls And floor. Illuminating peeling corners and A badly hung door. Somewhere, men and women, Boys and girls, are pulling on a string, Turning if off and on.

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Frederic J GreenallfeeharmonY

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Antonio Renaudher ark

she felt the need. tied her knots. a rope. a towel. a sheet. a cord.

she touched their hair. woke the first. stroked her cheek. left

her swinging in the air. called the second. held her hand. fit the noose

around her neck and hugged the third. kissed her lips. slipped her softly from her

bed and as she swung, went back. once more. hung her head. asked her final child to

please. keep still. don’t weep. closed her eyes and hers and hers and hers and joined them in their sleep.

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Antonio Renaudher ark

she felt the need. tied her knots. a rope. a towel. a sheet. a cord.

she touched their hair. woke the first. stroked her cheek. left

her swinging in the air. called the second. held her hand. fit the noose

around her neck and hugged the third. kissed her lips. slipped her softly from her

bed and as she swung, went back. once more. hung her head. asked her final child to

please. keep still. don’t weep. closed her eyes and hers and hers and hers and joined them in their sleep.

Antonio Renauda vIew, In lIeu of valenTInes

your nose takes risks, pursuing a path defiant of your face.

your walk has dips; it tilts to tempos shaken from your hips.

your lips are mobile glass. reflecting my approach along their fringe they spring, uncoiling with a crystal clarity.

and I am struck, again. I fall to eyes, again. my eyes that cannot yield the lovely, lovely you you cannot see.

Estlin ThomascomIng closer

Coming Closer (let’s make that the title (well, now I’ve lost the movement of the piece let’s start again)) (ahem…

Coming Closer well, at least i’d like to be li(e)ve it for the purposes of poetry (I’ll even change syntaxspacing and ,grammatical … if t h at w I ll impress) let’s pretend there’s some thing greater more significant more pronounced something with long limbs and soft hands to cradle the chaos in to … and let’s just say that i’ll i’ve i’m experience(d)(ing) it in whispers which take me from sips of tea of stars and from and of and back again and quietly in the rural awakening i flutter shutter aside: it’s almost as if written wants feel remembered even, at times, true

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Estlin ThomascomIng closer

Coming Closer (let’s make that the title (well, now I’ve lost the movement of the piece let’s start again)) (ahem…

Coming Closer well, at least i’d like to be li(e)ve it for the purposes of poetry (I’ll even change syntaxspacing and ,grammatical … if t h at w I ll impress) let’s pretend there’s some thing greater more significant more pronounced something with long limbs and soft hands to cradle the chaos in to … and let’s just say that i’ll i’ve i’m experience(d)(ing) it in whispers which take me from sips of tea of stars and from and of and back again and quietly in the rural awakening i flutter shutter aside: it’s almost as if written wants feel remembered even, at times, true

and thereupon a diverging … moon i am maintained motioned meaned cut divided to a common denominator to a place i can speak of/from a place worth speaking of/from (wouldn’t that be nice?)

By Gee he said OM (G) ! but, really I find It’s Just As Easy To Break Something New (No) It’s Much Easier To B r e a k so m e thin g New Than It Is To Build It (and quite satisfying) oops. why am i telling you this?

I’m supposed to come closer to make it somewhere to find value and to sell it Well then, (for the kids) It’s A Much Greater Thing To Build Something New Than It Is To Break It And then… Okay,, Here’s some more :

Yeah (too informal ,excuse me) Yes , i felt it: that ancient thing people feel people talk about people believe

and i held on i didn’t let it go i didn’t discard it (won’t you look at me! it really happened and it me ant soooomuch i even wear a necklace as a reminder and it works it totally works! you should try it)! (i’m be side my self! I) journeyed and it was the journey that count… I made it to the final be au ti ful end i n g (and all that sort of thing) which seems to end things beautiful things moments movies stanzas Paragraphs etc: coffeecups notebooks trainstations

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Yeah (too informal ,excuse me) Yes , i felt it: that ancient thing people feel people talk about people believe

and i held on i didn’t let it go i didn’t discard it (won’t you look at me! it really happened and it me ant soooomuch i even wear a necklace as a reminder and it works it totally works! you should try it)! (i’m be side my self! I) journeyed and it was the journey that count… I made it to the final be au ti ful end i n g (and all that sort of thing) which seems to end things beautiful things moments movies stanzas Paragraphs etc: coffeecups notebooks trainstations

i was lifted let’s pretend you be the one who’s listening and i’ll be the one who’s come back to tell you a story from the other side

Coming Closer Coming Close r e turning

for the purposes a side: i can almost live with chaos(myself )when i pretend

poetry moves people, right ? it says something needing saying ?

yeah, ! (hey ho!) let’s go with that idea !

creDITs

Layout and Design by Josiah Spence (BowlerHatCreative.com).

Edited by Matthew Payne, Josiah Spence, Michael Young, and Suncerae Smith.

All content © 2011 Rust and Moth ISSN 1942-5848.

All contributors retain individual rights to their works upon publication.

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