Social-i IV

2Yasmin ‘Jo’ LaCam - Untitled

3Yasmin ‘Jo’ LaCam - Untitled

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c o n t e n t sWords -Featured Translated Works-

Anzhelina Polonskaya - 20-Featured Poem-

Nigel Holt - 6-Featured Poet-

Maggie Harris - 8-Other Outstanding Works-

Leigh Herrick - 27 & 28Eamon longsleigh - 29Helen Blomfield - 33Jasmine Wake - 35Michael Lee Johnson - 36 & 37Channie Greenberg - 38 & 40Danny P. Barbare - 42

Art-Featured Photo-

17 - Chel Eshva Negus -Featured Artist-

44 - Rosetta Baker-Other Outstanding Works-

2 - Yasmin ‘Jo’ LaCam16, 32 & 43 - Aura Dove

20 - Joel Ormsby26 - RobAC

30 - Katie Woods34 - Luna Bee

39 - Aysha Long 41 - Royston ‘Stone’ Naylor

All work contained in Social-i remains property of the indervidual author or artist and is reproduced here with kind permission.

If you wish to submit work please email to [email protected] information on Social-i please visit www.social-i.co.uk or email [email protected]

Edited by Lorraine Kashdan-Lo ugherDesigned by Rob Annison-ClarkFront Cover by Bianca-Luciana Farr

www.social-i.co.uk

Artwork above clockwise from far left: Alice Woods, RobAC, Mark Russell, Rossetta Baker, Kate

Hertrich, Royston ‘Stone’ Naylor

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Hello and welcome back to Social-i magaz ine . After a cons iderable break in t iming between issues mysel f and des igner Rob Annison Clark have dec ided to make soc ia l - i magaz ine a year ly event (poss ib ly b iannual) and indeed, be ing as such a ce lebrat ion of the most incredib le , forward moving ar t and poetry that i t i s a year ly edit ion e levates the magaz ine to i ts r ightfu l p lace .

Once again the entr ies for th is edit ion del ighted and amused us and i t was as a lways d i f f icu lt to dec ide how to set out this sumptuous feast in a way that would be delectable for a l l but here i t i s . We have the stra ight-ta lk ing tradit ional rhythms of Maggie Harr is ’ poems which contrast the pol i t ica l angst and

horror conta ined so beaut i fu l ly by Le igh Herr ick , Eamon Loins igh and the trans lated works of Anzhel ina Polonskaya

As a lways the des igner has set these p ieces beaut i fu l ly and appropr iate ly a longs ide the back drop of the beaut i fu l

works of h is chosen ar t ists . This edit ion br ings

us featured ar t ist Rossetta Barker

who exhib its some her work f rom her upcoming book soon to

be publ ished by Socia l - i ent i t led

52 Weeks .

We hope you enjoy the publ icat ion and i ts r ichness and that you take t ime to sat is fy yourse l f at th is ce lebrat ion!

Lorra ine Kashdan-Lougher

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Featu red PoemN i g e l H o l t

Nigel Holt has lived and worked in the United Arab Emirates for a number of years. He has been published in a number of magazines and journals, the most recent of which are London Magazine, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Anglican Theological Review, Crannog, Agenda, and The Raintown Review.

T h i r t e e n Va r i a t i o n s o n t h e P y t h a g o r e a n S o n g o f Ra b b i t sBy

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O

There is a fearsome order in the resonance of things:

mathematics in the singing of a bumblebee’s short wings;

a universe of numbers trapped beneath a cello’s stringsand the octave from the tonic is the black and white that brings

eight and five conjoined in cycled sonnets sung for kings;the music of the sphere in Schumann’s tightly measured rings

is thirteen hertz per second in successive shifting swings.__________________________________

The gold has passed us by, though Sibelius in Belshazzarused it with all the colours of the scale; his repertoire

of e and φ like Satie’s key ‘Morceaux en Formes de Poire ‘ formed harmonies that weaved in Fibonacci’s avatar,which, multiplied sequentially, became the me so fa.

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Featu red PoetM a g g i e H a r r i s

Maggie Harris has been writing and performing as a poet since 1991.She has performed her work across the UK, and in Ireland, Europe and the Caribbean. She has published five collections of poetry and her recent work is a memoir, Kiskadee Girl, Kingston University Press. Her latest performance is a collaboration, Daughters, with Kent poets Vicky Wilson and Frances Knight and dancer Aimee Watmore.

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Waiting for Daddy

Daddy will soon come I know it I know itEven now his wheels are turning out of the bauxite dust Over the airstrip onto the pitch tar roadDaddy will soon come I know I know itEven now his wheels are turning as I looking outThe gallery windows he’s steering sharp to miss the potholesAnd the chickens and the children standing in the dustHe might be dreaming of home even as I am dreaming of himMy daddy will come soon I know he driving past the schoolWhere I will go one day only he won’t know that because my daddy won’t come homeHe speeding up the streets of Stanleytown where the bus goesWhere my sister rides her bike looking for boys and someone will see the pick-up truck spin off the roadwith my daddy at the wheel, his hat, the epaulettesand they will say the Captain’s going home I guessand daddy will come home speeding through the streets and turn into our pot-hole road and there I will be waiting, swinging on the gate so it open wide and his pickup truck will turn into the yardand I will say my daddy has come home my daddy has come home.

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Even as I sleep

Even as I sleep the mountains singI have not yet had my fill

The trees like windswept soldiersBrace their march against the hill

They sing against my blue-veined skinWith throats of bark and honeyed wood

And fill my ear like promises Like hymns.

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How do I love you?

How do I love you?Let me count the ways –Your picture’s on my bedroom wallYour socks are on the chaise

How do I love you?Let me count the waysI love you for your stubbleI love you for your gaze

Your name falls always from my lipsMy mind is in a dazeI fold your likeness in the sheetsMy origami phase

How I do love you!With the sun’s glare and the wind’s strengthThe lifeboat’s launch and the rain’s torrentWith a cat’s soft paws and a tiger’s leapAnd the whoosh of a bar-b-q’s flareWith the last ferrero and warm toeson cold white sheetsSo do I love you And always will.

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Recapturing the feminine

I for one, always appreciated doors opened for meSeats vacated, and to be bought lunch.

My equality in this marketplace never dependedOn the demise of gentlemen.

We who never had to tie ourselves to railingsOr march, inherited a limitless horizon.

But the feminine, always fathomless and powerful as oceansHolding moons and mind transfixed

Provoked wars simply with the terror of its beauty.Remember this, young sisters, when your harridan mouths

Gob and roar and scream your independenceFuelled by the brief promise of a short skirt

And an even shorter night.

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Before you left for the coast

Before you left for the coast... you returned my letters to meA great wad weighed down in your arms like shopping.Your shoes were shoneYour hair smoothedYour eagerness to leave as brazen as a balloonTugging at its string.I did not hold you with my eyesDid not remind you with the uncrossing of my thighsBut offered you instead the smile reserved for goodbyesTurned my thoughts away from suns and moon and tides.

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Spirits

Let me rock then, in the cradle of my imaginingsTears like showers of rain, springs, waterfallsLet me lift my face like a childLike a young wolf to the moonMy throat full of gospel songsLet my cheeks be as soft as turned earthMy lips bruised as plumsLet me trace each brook to its sourceFind there that first cry from the heart.Gods have dwelled hereRoamed with the full force of battleSent their messengers before themIn an array of disguisesPrimeval, battle-worn, whistlingThrough trees and stone, Old Testament To the bone.Lilith dancing like Isadora, Isis a disco divaMary with her pained son.Theresa, Bernadette, all perched on my altarAmongst the mascara and the rosaryAnd an emissary from the EastHeld fast in my kohl-rimmed eyes and blue laugh.Incantations tumbled like cornIts music borne on beads and tremblingIn Hallelujahs, Hare Khrisnas, Oms.Then Reason and Enlightenment,Descartes, Kant, Darwin, Milland from the West of Africa, the drum.

Oh spirits, leave me be.

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Feet pace the stone floor

Feet pace the stone floorHands pull back the curtains

The trees are still thereTall and full of menace

Fingernails itchTo touch the sky

These walls hold me closeIn their embrace

Each day they hold meCloser still

I understand nowThose women wandering streets

With invisible companionsImmersed in vibrant conversations

At the very tops of their voices.

16Aura Dove- Conscious Mind

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Featu red PhotoC h e l E s h v a N e g u s

Chel is a student at the University of Creative Arts specialising in the medium of digital photography. Her art delves into the realm of the unconscious, exploring the surreal, the uncanny and the macabre, a dimension limited only by the imagination.Taking inspiration from visual artists such as Gregory Crewdson Her work has theatrical feel to it and an atmospheric use of light and shadow. She seeks to invoke a sense of wonder and curiosity with every image she creates. To regress the viewer to a fantasy world suppressed since childhood.

S h a d o w M o n s t e rBy

18Chel Eshva Negus - Shadow Monster

19Chel Eshva Negus - Shadow Monster

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Translated WorksA n z h e l i n a P o l o n s k a y a

Angelina Polonskaya ( 1969) was born in Malakhovka, a small town near Moscow.Since 1998, she has been a member of the Moscow Union of Writers and in 2003, Polonskaya became a member of the Russian PEN-centre. In 2004 an English version of her book, entitled “A Voice,” appeared in the acclaimed “Writings from an Unbound Europe” series at Northwestern University Press. This book was shortlisted for the 2005 Corneliu M Popescu Prize for European Poetry in Translation and for the American Association of Teachers of Slavic and East European Languages (AATSEEL) prize for literature in translation, The Rockefeller Award.

By

T r a n s l a t e d b y A n d r e w W a c h t e l

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So Now the Soldiers Have Gone

So now the soldiers have gone and no one’s left.They ate and drank here, here they spat on the floor,while you touch my forehead and lips –neither Polish nor Russian. It’s a strange Sunday, like a wrist without a pulse,where should we go, dear landlady?We’d intended to live for a long time,offering some kind of bread, some kind of water –offering. Wait a bit, the forests have their phthalic depths,the soldiers are gone but the wolveshave certainly remained. You’ll be like a bright summer noon,with an open collar,someone will enter without a fight and you’ll tell all. No blood and no violence, but you won’t lie, you can’t,the soldiers stand and watch—they never left.

Previously published in The Malahat Review (2010) Canada

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Snow(Monologue)

Were my dad alive, I’d say to him:“There’s snow everywhere. It’s drifting so high, papa, you can’t finda clear place on my body. I’m beat. And there’s nowhere to go.”And do you know (let’s suppose) how he’d answer?“Give me the shovel, my girl? Clearing snow’s not women’s work?”Oh, no. You didn’t know my dad.He said: “There’s no salvation in little things.I knew that and, calculating, I watched the snow fall.The window frames and the pines that weren’t cut downin summer are all buried, and there’s a hole in my left temple.Believe me, your dad did all he could—I rubbed my eyes, then disappeared.”

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Still Life with Potato Field

Tell me, why is there war if not to leave buckles in lumps of clay?The potato field sleeps. At night you can’t guesswho’ll be lying down in the blue beet tops by morning.

A cold year. The train cars smellof rubber boots, bodies, and exhalation.A distant port wanders with shipsand in the crowd it’s easy to pass as a refugee.

Time marches on. The clock face strideswith metal arrows, like a crane in the lagoon.The bazaars are filled with traders,while the moon’s saber edge slashes the cigarette smoke.

The house is like a white fish diving into the mist.It’s been a long time since there was light in the window.At the edge of the field a female figure freezes,hiding potatoes in the folds of her skirt.

In the leaden air, where there’s no place for lungs,you hear only the clang of a gate’s hasp.For an instant the face looks out into the night,then hides its grief behind sticky fingers.

Previously published in Poetry New Zealand ( 2006) New Zeland

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(...)

The Sea has neither swans nor bright bedrooms,With whom will we fly and where will we lie down?

It’s fate, my angel, but when enmeshed you can’tavoid calling the doctor, or laughing off the answer.

You’re aging. These hands are aging.Instead of down the swan’s nights shine white,

while you have no one in your open heart—just a foolish sailboat trying to escape.

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Hourglass

Put your hands on my shoulders— andwe’ll greet one more star.We’ll spend one more nightmaking a feastfor hungry eyeson the white field of your chest,gathering moisture for our lipson the moonlit slopes of your knee.And whentime comes to take us -- to break us apart,we’ll pray to turn our hearts into the dead sandthat has poured thousands of timesfrom one side to the other.

Or into the drone of dead time?

Previously published in International Poetry Review (2006), USA

26Rob AC - Self Portrait

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Defeat of Barbarism

He begged he begged they searched him &emptied him he terrified he begged from the ditch from the wound begging begging as theycelebrated begging begging hands up frozen begging& afraid frozen begging as he bled throughwidespread alliances as he bled throughUS backing as he begged from the ditchof ruin for the terror passed for the terroryet to come begging & begging the hauled-up himup they threw him down removed his pants & thebursts the bursts while he begged of laughter ofshots of emotionless indifference-with-resultspulled to his feet from the ditchtoday begged for mercy begged for anythinga man makes allegiances you know a manmakes alliances & pledges all even from the ditch even before he concedes to deatheven as he witnesses how it lives in the castingstares of his plundered comrades a man canchange you know so he begged for all evenknowing this was war even knowinghow peace was ever held in captivity yethe rose his hands & begged & surrendered allbefore the rifle shots & those of the photographerwho found him for the New York Timeshands up frozen in death looking a little likeBig Foot after the battle at Wounded Knee

Leigh Herrick

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Morning Epistle in the Month of 2000 BombsOctober 23, 2001 Afghanistan: Operation Enduring Freedom, et al

Reading today how B-52s dropped Smart Bombs andC-17s pre-packaged snacksReading we may never be the same—(as if we’d changed)—after these attacksI wondered which foods could buffer any such counterattack, retaliation, defence orcounter-offensive even as between all lost and everything begun since 1 Tower 2 came down

fall pushes on

continuing its nothing new preparation toward spring—

where today from between the branches of a distant ash a chickadees’ vocalize a bird calling :one to no one until one called back—

Writing I wonder what is heardif even obliged by so small a bird

whose music stilled my nervesreminding me of something else

If the poem calls

If the cadence of a song is likethe curled tongue that from its own edgespushes out its sound saying: further or flattens to insist on: possibility

is it then sufficientto merely hopethat from this fragile web

or through the utterly imposed

a post-bombing snack is at all enough to balance the delicate matters ofhuman to human or bird to birdor tip to unbearable wing

Leigh Herrick

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The Opening of a Book The opening of a book is as revealing as the ancient peering inside a woman’s wound. There is no revolution cynical enough to succeed any longer, never count on change. The fruity, bourgeois pursuits of liberals can only be compared to the conservative’s love for despotism. Cultural conversion will be centuries long in transition, but will only begin when human empathy is considered a replacement for the old Gods. I am no longer oppressed by governments or corporations, but by the idiocy of my lower-middle class upbringing. The body tires of constant failure as it is generally agreed that an age similar to 65 should be the beginning of the farewell to slavery. Consistent with torture, the mind (which longed for rest) now demands more suffering.

Eamon Loingsigh

Joel Ormsby - Word Misery

30Katie Woods - Untitled

31Katie Woods - Untitled

32Aura Dove - Psychedeliseed

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Walked:

We walked.Tracing the veins out fromthe pulse of the CBDFound ourselves under concreteGraffiti spattered, heard our echosought refuge from the town’s heartbeat.

Sometimes we only have footsteps

Today, the story behindyour shattered smile.How easily people break,and suddenly.Heartless, faceless, heavily bootedthey didn’t like the look of you.Fisted, they beat you down,kicked your headuntil your face caved inand you curled upspitting bloodon a visit back to yourhome-town.

Helen Blomfield

34Luna Bee- Bums, Boobs and Bellies

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She.

And so. .she cuts her hair in memory of Samson and his Delilah,Past memories all strewn on the floor behind her.

She looks in the mirror and quietly knows no checkered history of games once played

could ever begin to make her changeFor she is her and her is me

Her reflection now is all there be.

Jasmine Wake

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Nikki Purrs

Soft nursing5 solid minutesof purrpaws paddlinglike a kayak competitoragainst ripples of my60 year old river rib cage-I feel like a nursing motherbut I’m male and I have no nipples.Sometimes I feel afloat.Nikki is a little black skunk,kitten, suckles me for milk,or affection?But she is 8 years old a cat.I’m her substitute mother,afloat in a flower bed of love,and I give back affectionfreely unlike a money exchange.Done, I go to the kitchen, get outFancy Feast, gourmet salmon, shrimp,a new work day begins.

Michael Lee Johnson

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Charley Plays

Crippled, in Chicago,with arthritisand Alzheimer’s,in a dark rented room,Charley playsmelancholic melodieson a dust-filledharmonica hefound abandonedon a playground of sandyears ago by a handful of childrenplaying on monkey bars.He hears bedlam when he buys fish at the local marketand the skeleton bones of the fish show through.He lies on his back, riddled with pain,pine cones fill his pillows and mattress;praying to Jesus and rubbing his rosary beadsCharley blows tunes out hiscelestial instrumentnotes float through the open windowtouch the nose of summer clouds.Charley overtakes himself with griefand is ecstatically alone.Charley plays a solo tune.

Michael Lee Johnson

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Inviting in the Cat Zarni’s hedgehog fixation was rudimentarily fabulous, but financially rash. Spiny mammal farming, the critters’ raucous celebrations aside, proved expensive; they fashioned their own hats only for parties. Otherwise, those prima donnas insisted on designer goods. To forestall further loss, Zarni invited in the cat.

Channie Greenberg

Parsimony Plagued Racheli Parsimony plagued Racheli, who, otherwise enamored with twittering, often sent her seemingly uxorious husband, Stephen, demands for flowers, furs, and funny salutations. For $29.95 and a fake Internet address, he bought amity. Again a flophouse recluse, he enjoyed caffeine’s heartburn, sugar’s irritability, and his gun’s silencer.

Channie Greenberg

39Aysha Long - Untittled

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From the Diary of a Sleep Disordered Undercover Agent ‘closed my eyes at noon. Awoke at sunrise, two states away.

Their Aquarium Full of Millipedes Her corazón kissed her wherever and whenever she desired. Compensating for a testicle crushed, while riding a mechanical bull, he gladly imparted frequent, public affections. Consequently, she was surprised when he demanded that she relinquish her share in ownership of their aquarium full of millipedes.

Booting the Baby’s Buggy Clarabelle insisted on lifting the perambulator “all by self.” The boot, to which she reached, was a half meter higher than my girl. Had I not surreptitiously enhanced her design, she might have folded in Thomas, too.

Insufficient Acquiescence “Resignation accepted,” scribbled the Dean, “not for gender discrimination, but for insubordination. You, my dear, wolves would attack.” He offered, as she closed his office door, “why couldn’t you have known better?

Quietly, he addended, “nasty woman.”Prosecution proved ineffective; the school’s top official, an ex-governor, commanded audiences with the nation’s sitting president. What’s more, lawyers were disinterested in contingency work. The mass media were both costly and biased.

Whereas a mediation centre ruled in her favour, it was only after she signed away rights to future litigation. An “anonymous” tip to the regional EEOC, though, more than sufficed.

Channie Greenberg

41Royston ‘Stone’ Naylor - Toking With Howard Marks

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The Lecture

One eye on the clockThe other on the teacher,

Holding back a yawnLater, the book

As if not enough timeFlowing like the James River

Water from the kettleEverything worthy

Everything was heard.

Danny P. Barbare

43Aura Dove- Healing Mandala

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Featu red A r t i s tR o s s e t t a B a k e r

Rosetta Baker is a Kent-based photographer and creator of Rosetta Takes Photos - a local company focussing mainly on events, weddings, and portraiture. Rosetta’s photographic interest started from a young age, but began in earnest when she was told by a world-renowned photographer of the National Geographic that “it was a difficult world to get into, so [she] may as well not bother”.Her style is that of the bizarre, and beautiful. With no professional training, Rosetta concentrates on pure colour, light, and form to achieve her images. Also, any excuse to dress up. Rosetta has taken photos in a professional context for many companies, having had her work used in advertising, and turned into large canvasses to create atmosphere in (for example) local pub, The Foundry Brewbar.Rosetta is very interested in displaying her work to a greater number of people, in particular her 52 Weeks project, which she holds great pride in.

45Rossetta Baker - Untitled

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52 Weeks by

Rosetta BakerSocial-i Publications presents ‘52 Weeks’ by Rossetta Baker. A photo stor y of one year of her life.

In this, the first publication from Social-i Publications, we explore a year in the life of Rossetta Baker with 52 self portraits to mark her emotional journey through the year.

Keep following us on our website www.social-i.co.uk and our facebook group for updates on the release date and where to get hold of copies.

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Social-i is where you’ll find ergonomic art for odd shaped people, and a whole plethora of words and pictures from a whole host of very talented people. This magazine is a platform to showcase work from around the world as well as the work of our artists from the travelling gallery. We are a collective, an amorphous blob of creativity. We are painters, set designers, photographers, tailors, sculptors, printers, makers, carpenters and poets and writers. Travelling the earth in our winged time machine we spread artistic knowledge and resourcefulness. Unfunded and unhinged we pull it all together to generate spaces filled with energy, colour and ethereal experiences.

Whether you wish to draw a dream capture a poem, get messy with clay or

create an impression in alginate we help you along the journey. With humour and jollity we go about this, all the while with the highest regards for our artists (most of the time).

As well as the travelling gallery and workshop space we have a publishing arm which we run our own poetry and art submissions publication in which you are reading now. We are now beginning to release other publications, in hardcopy form, beginning with ‘52 weeks’ by Rossetta Baker

If you wish to book Social-i for your festival or event, would like to buy or commission a piece of work or just fancy a chat please go to our website www.social-i.co.uk or call us on 07875 608530 to speak to us directly.

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