Imitiation Poem

This is what I did with Gilberts poem. I really liked how i felt God in his writing and that is why I chose this poem. This is one of my favorite ones that I did. I like the semi- restriction that gets put on by having to follow such a pattern


The Lord Sits with me Out in Front.
The Lord Sits with me out in front watching
A sweet darkness begin in the fields.We try to decide if I am lonely.
I tell him about waking at four a.m. and thinking
of what the man did to the daughter of Louise.
And there being no moon when I went outside.
He says maybe I'm getting old.
That being poor is taking too much out of me.
I say I am fine. He asks for the Brahms.
We watch the sea fade. The tape finishes again
and we sit on. Unable to find words.


My father walks with me up the stairs.

My father walks with me up the stairsdown the hall to my bedroom.
He asks me why I am not happy.
I tell him of the nights spent alone wondering
of what she is doing and who she is with.
And there never being a sun in my sky.
He says maybe I am getting tired.
That being vulnerable is destroying me inside.
I say that I'll live. He nods his head.
We sit on my bed. Music is playing
and we listen. Silence

Hallelujah Revision

Hey everybody. I just revised the poem we workshopped last night becuase I was left with TONS of ideas and I figured I'd post it on here. Anyone that has any comments please let me know. I love feedback. It's more allusive now so may take a bit more googling but I got into my rewriting frenzy when I found out a group of sheep isn't only known as a flock, but also a "mob." No pressure to read or comment but I figured I might as well put it up. Thanks for all the comments in class. P.S. Hallelujah means "Praise God." I looked it up to be sure.

Hallelujah


“It is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.”
-Oscar Wilde

The most spectacular politician
is he who we call God.
His slogan:“I work in mysterious ways”
explains every flaw,
and when logic rears its ugly head
it’s all trumped by faith.
Blindness is rewarded
and that devil known as thought
meets harsh reprimand.

In our very first instance
we were punished
for seeking ideas in apple form.
And perhaps Adam thought of God’s rib:
“It is better to live outside the Garden
with her than inside it without her.”
But first love aside the ever wise leader
cast out his first constituents.

History tells us the Romans
adored Augustus and
Napoleon was the pride of France.
Loved by all, from the senators and aristocrats
to the eyeless beggars and toothless whores.
Two mighty shepherds leading less than
inquisitive mobs.
From the start our own wise
and omnipotent emperor
wanted us as his livestock,
simply there to shout “Hallelujah!”
Told how to think and how to feel
never leaving our dark coal mines
to head towards the light.

So, like miners, mankind digs forward
proud that they can’t see ahead,
and no one seems to notice
that the canary is long dead.

Poem revision <3

I revised the poem Crooked Lines. Thank you to Professor Graham for all of your help and to the class for all of your comments and suggestions. It looks completely different but I think its so much better. Let me know what you guys think!

This was the original poem:

Crooked lines

Sitting on the train,
Riding backwards,
I hear tiny but vehement
Droplets of rain,
Make boisterous tip-tapping chatter
Against the outer skirts of the window pane.

I look at myself against the glass
Noticing all the little knick-knacks
About myself that I would love to change
Its sad,
when a girl can still point out her flaws,
when her face is muddied, into a mosaic,
by Mother Nature’s tears and Industry’s mighty mane.

It is 8:03 and I begin to fall into a daze.
My meandering mind wanders, exploring
The dusty depths of the golden days.

Where daddy thought I was beautiful
Even though I wore a pirate’s eye patch
over my left eye.
When in my apartment, it became too damp, too cold
my mommy would warm me by singing to me Spanish lullabies.

As I get of,f I see an elderly couple helping each other
Get off of a bench.
It was the most beautiful sight I have ever seen
And in that moment I realized that beauty
Isn’t defined by straight lines but by the crookedness
That lies in between.

This is my revision:

Routine Journey

Riding backwards.

My back sinks into the smooth comfort

Of my seat.

Like a tired head into a pillow

I retreat

A sigh of relief,

I let out.

The train is moving.

The vibrations

Trickle their way up

My backside.

They feel

Like the legs of hungry spiders.

Readjust? No.

I let them feast.

Rain has christened the glass.

I look to my left

I see a distorted me..

I don’t mind.

I examine myself

Intently, analyzing my miss-shapen

Face. The reflection and I

Seem to both agree. I am distorted,

Muddied by insecurities.

The way my frizzled locks

Wrestle with the frazzled comb

In an intent match. The way

My right eye sways crookedly,

Lazily. forcing the 4 year old me

To where, daily, an eye patch.

It eats away at me.

I shake my head in disapproval and readjust

My focus to a cascade of bald, white businessmen

In black or blue suits. They’re each accompanied,

by an inanimate partner; a brown paper bag

Carrying beer, their makeshift happy juice.

Their laptop screens intrigue me.

Emanating from them not excel

Or PowerPoint-seeds of the elite

But a game of Solitaire,

a game that with me

Resonates with a familiar beat.

nights in high school

spent pacifically in front of the 19 inch

computer screen. Dazed and marred I stared

at the different suits that suit those

who hazed, the crazed who would disregard me.

He wins with a black 8 of hearts.

Oh, how ironic.

Oh, my heart, tarnished

Blackened by whimsical whispers heard

From afar.

“Pamela the bisexual....”

They whispered

As their lockers unlocked.

Unleashing the secret

That tore my heart from my head

My head from my heart.

I longed in those days

To revert back to when daddy

Showed me I was beautiful by

Kissing my forehead

And calling me

La Mas Preciousa Princesa en el Mundo.

Those days are gone though.

Kept away in the attic like a dusty diary.

The lock is broken. Secrets and memories

Meant to be, never reopened.

The announcer announces 42^nd street

And with me, the business men depart.

My beige messenger bag, flared, gets stuck,

Intertwined in their Armani carrying cases.

A man releases mine, I turn and smile

With a “Thank You”. Noticing

The mundane face, traces of youth

Erased in his withered, wrinkled smile.

We go our separate ways. Damp with rain

I inhale a breath filled with microcosms of

curled insecurities, inebriated escapes and

acceptance, hoped to have attained with age.

Just like that I go on my way

I become a microcosm of wandering pedestrians in the

Business of 42^nd street; insecurities unbeknownst to

The passing face.

It might be a little long but it felt right to me. Hope you guys liked it!

Journal Review of Elixir

Elixir #2 2002

Submissions of both poetry and fiction are read from May 15 until September 1.

I could not find more information about subscriptions beyond the above.

Elixir is published by Elixir Press, a non-profit literary organization. It features both poetry and short works of fiction. Many poems and short stories are missing capital letters throughout the journal:

Memoir of an Unnamed Shore

Somewhere Near the Lost Island of Utopia

the door cracks in so many different directions. all back-slaps & gummy smiles;…

The poems differ in format throughout. There are some poems that I just didn’t like because they seemed quite vague and almost seemed to be missing word:

“What is kindness for?

Veronica washing his feet

Mary’s arms

The erotics of absence…” from Hello Beloved by Claudia Keelan

Many poems seem to be missing an overall idea. While using concrete images, the language and overall idea is quite abstract.

“Ode to a Cheerleader” by E. Schwerer

Around here fear is a thing you put in your mouth backwards

then rip off the filter of as if there was nothing wrong with you.

This is something she is not used to.

The weeping willow across the street is half dead,

its new leaves clustered into sets of sorrow

the way fireworks cheaply spread at a county fair.

This is all anything green can sometimes muster.

At times, however, it can do more. Make changes, modify behavior,

flower for a moment up into the frame the sky has given it,

flash

and so manage

some meager profit from that slight, crippled glory.

This poem continues on for two and a half more pages. I really like the description of the willow and the comparison to the fireworks. The imagery is beautiful. I feel that this poem is easy to identify with for anyone who has participated in any sort of sport. I like the idea of overcoming fear when one is not used to such a challenge. This poem conveys a sense of empowerment in overcoming our fears. The poem is broken up into six different sections. The next section talks about surrender. Next is grief; the poet talks about the death of the cheerleader’s grandfather and the tears that she wept. The poem has referenced dogwood from the beginning. It ends by saying that the dogwood is full grown and beautiful but the girl is not. She has given in to fear.

This poem seems like it could be quite predictable but it has a surprising twist. I appreciate that it isn’t a happy ending and the comparison to fear and growth. There is no saving the girl because she has given in to disease. The dogwood will grow but eventually die. This poem sends an interesting message.

Midterm Revisions

I just wanted to compliment everyone on their midterm revisions thus far. It's been inspiring for me to re-read everyone's poems and how different they turned out. I love the new language, I love how concise they are and how beautifully they flow. I have a lot of work in my other classes so I've only been slowly revising my poems but I'm slowly starting to get inspired as I read the work everyone has been posting on Facebook. It gives me faith in my work and lets me know that though revising is the most difficult part of the creative process, it's the most fun and helpful. I can only hope that my revisions will be as wonderful and creative as yours have been!

Imitating Jack Gilbert's Poem "Guilty"

Guilty
by Jack Gilbert

The man certainly looked guilty.
Ugly, ragged, and not clean. Not to mention
their finding him there in the woods
with her body. Neighbors told how he was
always playing with dead squirrels,
mangled dogs, even snakes. He said
those were the only things that would
allow him to get close. "Look at me,"
the old man said with uncomplaining
simplicity, "I'm already one of the dead
among the dead. It's hard to watch things
humiliated the way death does it.
Possums smeared on the road, birds with ants
want privacy for their disgrace.
It's true I washed the dirt from her face
and the blood off the body. Combed her hair.
I slept beside her, at her feet for two days,
the way my dog used to. I got the dress
on the best I could. She looked so neglected.
Like garbage thrown in the weeds.
Like nobody cared because he had done that
to her. I kept thinking about how long
she is going to be alone now. I knew
the police would take pictures and put them
in the papers naked and open so people
eating breakfast could look at her. I wanted
to give her spirit enough time to get ready."

Guilty

by Daisy

He felt horrible after that.
Anger, depression, and certainly bad.

Especially when he
was called out upon his mom where
she told him off. His friends knew him
where he would laugh, and have
fun with everything that he did.
Family and friends were the things
that he loved so much. "Do you see,"
is what he said really simple
and calm, "I have done all that I can
to mess things up. It's not that easy
to watch things that I've seen.
You see road killed deers, cars running over
birds with no care. Sometimes the smallest
creature wants care in life.
Yes I did hurt her every possible way I
could where I denied I did. I changed her.
I didn't want to, but she did because she cared,
especially when times were really rough. I gave her love
and she gave it back. I neglected her sometimes.
Like a child being denied candy.
Like nobody told me to do that to
her. I didn't want to lose her because
I know she could do better. It's obvious
that her friends would be by her side
and her family will to so everyone
will know that I did bad. I wanted
to love her more, but her love was gone."

My Experience Imitating "Guilty"

So where do I begin? You know when you see movies where some people tend to find things just by dropping something or turn on the radio and listen to the first station that is set on the radio? That's kind of how I discovered this poem. I didn't know which poem to imitate or how to go about this assignment that I just decided to open the book and the first poem that I saw from both pages I would begin to imitate. It worked for me!

While I was reading "Guilty," I sensed that there was more to the poem besides someone just describing a crime scene. I thought there were a presence of love that had gone wrong where domestic violence was an issue, as well as a sense of regret. I sensed that the Jack Gilbert was making the character sound not only descriptive, but more narrative as well. It was almost as if the character was giving a police statement where they describe the events that lead to the scene and what the result was after.

When I began to write my poem, I tried to use the same number of words in a sentence just as Jack Gilbert. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn't, but overall I think it's the same number word count....I think is the key word here. I decided to write my poem based on what I thought was Jack Gilbert's idea of remorse, regret, and what would the character in the poem say after him describing the crime scene that he has stated in the poem "Guilty."

This was something very new and different for me to write about, because I myself have never wrote a imitation poem and this was somewhat challenging, especially since I had to try to put myself in Jack Gilbert's position of him interpreting this poem. In the end though, it was something where I was able to write about what I thought was Jack Gilbert's interpretation and I was able to understand the poem more and see it in a different light.

Review of AGNI 54: Amnesty International Fortieth Anniversary -John Vigliotti

This journal contains a plethora of material. Its full of poems, fiction, non-fiction, interviews, book reviews, and even some cartoons. I liked the wide variety of stuff that's in this book and it gave me a lot to check out. I read over one article by Anthony Arnove entitled "Scenes from Iraq." It talks about journalists traveling throughout war torn Iraq and paints a very vivid scene of the setting. It recollects on the first Gulf War and the politics surrounding it but also tells about recent Iraqi history, including horrid details about Sadam Hussein's mass killings. Amongst the variety in the AGNI I found a poem that really stook out to me. It takes up both sides of a page and is printed vertically instead of horizontally. It's called "Pure Music" and it's by Teresa Cader.

Pure Music

Tonight I am trying to listen, trying to do nothing but hear the leaves, their green wind chime.
In the random rustle of air, I hear a beckoning.

Where will I go if I follow? The hold I have is slender without branches or roots. The music of the universe is no comfort. In the leaves I hear my breath quickening.

In a cellar ten years ago my friend hung herself while her husband slept upstairs.
She left a shrine of letters at her feet, one of them mine, complaint disguised as apology.

If I try to imagine her rapid gasps, I can. To empty the mind is to be less attached.
In the leaves I hear a flute. I want--

Let your breath slow down, let it make a wind tunnel in your throat. Maybe I don't exist
the way others do. When I call to myself, when I let go--

In despair, Moses waited in the cleft of the mountain. He heard God pass by,
What sound could that have been?

Sycamore leaves fall last. Tight-fisted when snow comes early, they claw the ground.
Who could have known she would make a noose for herself?

Air, breath and spirit share one word in Hebrew. It is said the spirit does not need breath
to be alive. Is there intention in the wind chime, or is it the music of nothing?

This poem is simply amazing. I wish I could even come close to mimmicing something of the calibur. Her use of sounds and relating it to the hanging is brillant. The references to the Bible and Moses are also nice touches. I now see why researching while writing poetry pays off so well. The details about the sycamore and the Hebrew make this poem unique and alive. I think the reason I chose it was just because of it's display in the book that caught my eye, as well as the title. The natural music of life is often ignored and now after reading this, I'll listen more. I also loved the breath/wind theme throughout because it relates to all life. The wind makes nature come alive and breathing could have saved her friend, but instead the horrid sound of her feet skimming the floor made a sort of "pure music." It's a gloomy image but a powerful one at that.

Imitating Jack Gilbert's "Going There" by John Vigliotti

Going There by Jack Gilbert (from The Great Fires)


Of course it was a disaster.
The unbearable, dearest secret
has always been a disaster.
The danger when we try to leave.
Going over and over afterward
what we should have done
instead of what we did.
But for those short times
we seemed to be alive. Misled,
misused, lied to and cheated,
certainly. Still, for that
little while, we visited
our possible life.

Waking Up to Jimi Hendrix in a Tent

In the depths of the mind
lay darkness, illuminated shadow
of what memories we know.
behind the shadow is questions and reality
In reverie we doubt ourselves
What could have been if
things had gone another way
Yet at the current moment
living fast is good living. Blurred,
lost, drunk as a skunk,
found. However, we still
just go, back to
this medicated youth

Going about Imitation:
This was a difficult process because Jack Gilbert has a ton of interesting poems in his book
This poem caught my attention because he writes about the abstract topic of internalized memories.
He always alludes to regret like "what we should have done. instead of what we did." I chose this poem
because of its subject matter and because it interested me; although I knew my imitation could not
do his justice I thought I'd take a stab at it.

As far as patterns go the first thing I noticed was his repeated use of words beginning with D in the beginning of the poem.
Like in the first three lines: "Of course it was a disaster. The unbearable, dearest secret
has always been a disaster. The danger." This repetition really made these strong words even more powerful. He skips one line then does another two lines of repetition with the letter "D".
This repetition didn't do as much for the poem as the first instance but it's still notable. The last pattern I found was his use of "mislead" and "misused" which makes you slow down when you read it
so it keeps the reader's attention on what is written. This is definitely important and Jack Gilbert does it well. I think the volta is on line #8 where he writes "But for those short times."
It changes the tone from the repetition of negativity to a slight optimism about "their" lives. It adds a nice contrast to the rest of the poem and provides a lapse, which leads to the continued internalized speculation of the mind.

With my poem I tried to do one thing in the beginning then changed it up in the second half. Its a shame I could not have done it as well as Jack Gilbert but that's what this course is for I guess. I wanted to use simple language because Gilbert doesn't overwhelm his with anything complex yet it's still powerful.
I wanted to portray our generations ties to past generations in that we all enjoy being intoxicated but still put a negative connotation on such activities that all are guilty of. It's a bit too much to do with such a short poem and my ability but again, I took a stab at it. The title comes from my father's story
of being at Woodstock 69' and waking up to Jimi playing; I always associate it with the medicated youth. I'm going to revise this poem and work with that image much more..

The American Poetry Review, Jan/Feb 2008, Vol. 37/No. 1

The editors of this periodical are grateful for the opportunity to consider unsolicited manuscripts. Please include SASE.

There's a lot of advertising in this journal. I don't know whether that is typical, but as I thumbed through it, I shopped MFA programs and considered various contest opportunities. I imagined winning first place in every contest and using that to fund grad. school. I didn't do the math; I don't know if it works out.
The journal included poems from all sorts of people. Among the first to appear in the issue are those of Ales Debeljak, a Slovenian poet, cultural critic, and translator. The title of the journal seems a misnomer, but it is funded in part by grants received from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, the National Endowment for the Arts, The Philadelphia Cultural Fund, and the Dietrich Foundation.
The journal also included commentaries and reviews. The final article by Michael Ryan discusses a poem in Claire Nouvian's "superb new book" The Deep. The journal opens with Peter Balakian's essay on Survival in Auschwitz. Both offer rich insight into the text's they discuss.
In an interview with Robert Kelly, a poet and professor at Bard College, Clayton Eshleman discusses excerpts of Kelly's work with him directly. Kelly is able to explain some of his choices in his works and some of his thoughts on the poetry world and language in general.
As I read this journal, I felt from time to time that I was a casual observer to a culture I didn't fully understand. I think I was probably right.

Support the Troops by Terrance Hayes

I'm sorry I will not be able to support any soldiers
at this time. I have a family and a house with slanting floors.

There is a merciless dampness in the basement,
a broken toilet, and several of the windows are painted shut.

I do not pretend my dread is anything like the dread
of men at war. Had I smaller feet, I would have gladly enlisted

myself. In fact, I come from a long line of military men.
My grandfather died heroically in 1965, though his medals have been

lost. I try to serve my country by killings houseflies. I am gully
aware of their usefulness, especially in matters of decay.
Napoleon's surgeon general, Baron Dominique Larrey,

reported during France's 1829 campaign
in Syria that certain species of fly only consumed

what was already dead and had a generally positive effect on wounds.
When my grandfather was found,

his corpse shimmered in maggots free of disease. As you can
tell, I know a little something about civilization.

I realize that when you said "Freedom," you were talking
about the meat we kill for, the head of the enemy leaking

in the bushes, how all of it makes peace possible.
Without firearms I know most violence would be impractical.

And thank you for enclosing photos and biographical information
of soldiers who might suit my household. I am sure any one

of them would be an excellent guardian of my family.
I admit I have no capacity for refiles or gadgetry.
I cannot use rulers accurately.

I have not been able to drive off the flies. I can see
that they all have teeth that are the very masticates of democracy

and I thank you for noting the one with a talent
for making the eagle tattooed across his back rear its talons.
I realize my support comes with a year long subscription

to the gentleman's magazine of my choice.
I realize were it not for the sacrifices of these young boys,

America would no longer have its source
of power. I have given considerable thought to your
offer, but at this time, I simply am unable to offer my support.


The opinions of this poem do not represent the opinions of the author of this blog entry.
I chose this poem because of its playfulness. Although a disdainful polemic against American imperialism, its vitriole is thoughtful at times (My grandfather died heroically in 1965, though his medals have been/lost...) His ability to discuss these matters and pull in his broken toilet, slanting floors, and killing of houseflies, all the while misinterpreting "Support the troops" were memorable at their finest moments and at least laughable at their worst. In spite of the obvious Best of Craigslist rant tone of this poem, he successfully uses its structure to highlight idea, contrasting them against others. (lost. I try to serve my country by killing houseflies. I am fully/aware of their usefulness, espeically in matters of decay./Napoleon's surgeon general, Baron Dominque Larrey) (his corpse shimmered in maggots free of disease. As you can/tell, I know a little something about civilization.)

The Literary Review

The Fall 2007 Volume 5 Literary Review contains both poetry and prose, most of which has been translated. Before I even began to read the poetry, I began thinking about language. The words chosen for a poem are selected through tedious process. The wrong word can ruin a poem, and a beautiful word can bring a poem to new heights. I began to think how many carefully chosen words could have been lost in translation and if what I was about to read is really what the poet wanted me to read. But then I thought that translation will always be a language barrier and tried to take the words that I read for what they were and did not contemplate whether they were what they're supposed to be.

I found Wei Ying-wu's poetry especially interesting because it was written a pretty long time ago but had a very modern feel, which could have been due to the translation. The following poem is the one I liked the best:

Jade Diggers Ballad
The government drafts a common man
tells him to dig for Lan River jade
over the ridge nights away from home
surrounded by brambles sleeping in the rain
his wife returns from taking him food
and sobs looking south from their home

I have said before that I like short poetry very much, and I found that most of the poetry in the Review was on the shorter side. I feel that short poetry has more power to it. It takes select, perfectly chosen words and places them together to create something that has vast effect. This is a simple, six line poem; but the words chosen make the reader feel the plight of the jade digger and the effect his duty has on his family. The language is very important here because it is where the story and the feeling that comes with it stems from. Of course I cannot be sure if anything was lost in translation, but the way the piece stands now is very powerful and the style really help encapsulate the struggle.

There is a chapter taken fromt he book Love and Language by Ilan Stavans and Veronica Albin (which is a dialogue between the two authors) and I want to discuss a small excerpt from it.

VA: You've said that dictionaries are prudish and unromantic.
IS: The definitions one encounters in them are cold as ice. I often wonder: Do lexicographers ever feel the need to express themselves in a more poetic language? Do they get the blues?
VA: They are methodical.
IS: They are cold fish, and wimps, too.

I found this little tidbit to be very interesting. People often forget that things outside of poetry can be poetic. All words have poetry to them and it is truly a magical craft when the right ones are placed together. Stavans ackonwledges something in the world that he knows is cold, but can be made beautiful; and I found the fact that he was addressing that inspiring. A perfect hand-in-hand example would be from a Swedish poet Fredrik Nyberg whose collection in the book turned sciene into poetry. It all ties into the overarching motif thatI find in this book of the importance of words. Scientific terms by themselves are not beautiful, but when put in the right context they can be made beautiful. The same thing applies to what Stavans is saying about the dictionary. The definitions are bare-boned and to-the-point, but they have the ability to be poetic. Now, I am not saying that I want the dictionary to be poetic, but I certainly understand and respect the argument. Overall, I came to understand and appreciate the importance of words in poetry from The Literary Review much more.

Literary Review

The Literary Review
An International Journal of Contemporary Writing
Summer 2003, Vol. 46, No. 4

The journal is made up of poems, short fiction stories, reviews on books and authors among other entries. What was most interesting about this journal was the fact that many of the poems especially are translated. The beginning poetry is translated from Spanish and Dutch while the poems in the back of the book were translated from Chinese and Italian. I found it really wonderful that a book could bring authors and critics from all over the globe and print their work in one book. I mostly connected to the short stories, I thought the writing was brilliant. However, the poem that stuck with me was a poem entitled The Potter by Pablo Neruda, which was translated from Spanish.

Your Whole body holds
a stemmed glass or gentle sweetness destined for me.

When I let my hand climb,
in each place I find a dove
that was looking for me, as if
my love, they had made you of clay
for my very own potter's hands.

Your knees, your breasts,
your waist,
are missing in me, like in the hollow
of a thirsting earth
where they relinquished
a form,
and together
we are complete like one single river,
like one single grain of sand.

I found it interesting that Neruda chose to capitalize the word 'Whole' in the first stanza. It seemed like a shape like of a vase made by a potter. I also found it interesting that the title only plays on the last line in the second stanza 'my very own potter's hands'. Even though the poem is not about him being a potter or even of this woman's body being molded or shaped, the poet chose to name this poem from one sentence of this poem. I thought it was a really beautiful title, as well as a beautiful description. As a woman, it would make me feel beautiful to know that my body was a vessel for love for someone else. Pottery is a very intimate craft as well. You use your hands and your mind to create something beautiful from a lump of clay. I like that the poet is making that reference to this woman of his affection. I also enjoyed the last and longest stanza of the poem with the poet and the woman melting and molding into one. He chose to state that them together was like 'one single river, like one single grain of sand' and I thought that was very beautiful. A river and sand are a part of nature, created by God and these two people are one in the same, created by God. It's just a very powerful ending to a beautiful poem.

The Literary Review is published quarterly since 1957 by Fairleigh Dickinson University. Manuscripts are read from September through May. Submissions cannot be returned without SASE.

The Mosaic

The Mosaic, Fall 2008 Edition, Marist College Literary Arts Society.

The Mosaic really shows the talent of fellow college students across campus. It is a local publishing of a variety of poems and other works written by Marist students in the Literary Arts Society, including Poetry 311's own, Michael Cresci. It is a collection of some brilliant works done by current students who have amazing talent and incredible ability. An example that was particularly striking to me was...

Stubborn Conscience
by Chris Cho

Fractured and beaten, his own words he's eaten with a hearty humble pie.
What would possess him to commission such an ambitious mission delving deep into
one mind's eye? He hears songs sung alone with words too well known as heavy
steps carry feet along. Silk-clad and sad, the hatter jabbers mad, smooth inconsistencies
to attempt all who he may deflower in the wake of his suave debonair. Making
rankings and rantings with ratings and hatings he judges with the haste of a mullah
glut of pride. All smug and consistent, his thoughts are resistant to the hypocrisy that dribbles down his chin. Each sip of tea, another catastrophe of a human being who has
sinned, their life the only cost. However fault is crass and malicious, altogether vicious,
but brutally honest all the same. She finds him alone, locked up on his own, conversing
with the callous voices that see to the end that the honor, much to his horror,
feels like salt in his wounds, like sulfur. Thus he eats his own words, all twisted with
verbs that have him tearing away from the glass. The mass imperfection, mirrors so much rejection that skims only the surface in the deepest parts of him. It's more than
obscene, his face so clean-cut and lean, staring back but lacking humility.

I found this poem particularly striking because of it's brilliant rhyme scheme and just how well it flows when read making it more fun and appealing to the reader. The tone, rhyme and flow help to keep the reader's attention and also help to make the poem more powerful. From the very first line i was immediately attracted to this poem and found myself sucked in by its presence and the rhyme scheme helped to keep my interest. I find this work to have the potential to be a great song for some reason but can't put my finger on what kind of genre it would belong to or what kind of music would accompany it.

The Mosaic is printed every semester by the Literary Arts Society and the Mosaic Staff at Marist College. I'm not exactly sure how to submit personal works to the staff to be included in other editions, or if one has to be a member of the club, but the club advisor is Tom Zurhellen.

Generator and Mosaic Magazines

In case anyone was still interested and wasn't able to get the information during class last week, here is the Generator's website :

http://generatormagazine.blogspot.com/

The articles for the first issue are due this week but if anyone is interested in writing for the second one feel free to contact me.

Also!

submissions are due this Friday, March 6th, for the Mosaic and can be submitted to MaristLAS@yahoo.com. Poems, short stories, photographs, and artwork are welcome and encouraged!

Notre Dame Review Journal

Notre Dame Review:
Near and Far
Number 18
Summer 2004

When I first started flipping through the poems and short stories throughout the review I noticed that a lot of them had to do with physical places and the experiences in those places, hence the title. But after reading more I found that a lot of them also have to do with bodily and out of body experiences, personal experiences, which got me to thinking even more about the title. The way I see it, the "Near" part of the title has to do with those physical experiences that happen so close to the author, or even take place inside of the author; while the "Far" experiences are those that are either physically in other countries and parts of the world, or just experiences that seem so far out of the author's body and mind. One example that mixes both the Far and the Near is the short story by Michael Northrop titled "My Body" (pg. 157). He's running in the morning when he comes across a dead body washed up on the rocks that looks exactly like him, other people notice it too and he is baffled by it yet strangely intrigued. Another example of mostly the Far side is the poem "Email to the Year 2999" by Dick Allen (pg. 156). The title pretty much explains the whole distance theme.
One of the poems that really caught my attention was "The Presentation" by Beth Ann Fennelly (pg. 40). The poem is too long to post the entire thing, so I'll just put six stanzas from the middle that I really liked.

1. How many children do you have?
There's just one answer, and it's wrong.

2. How many children do you have?
Ann, I'm sending you this grid
of imaginary numbers,
whole notes.

3. How many children do you have?
We'll make a place where they can count.

4. How many children do you have?
Zero's always where you start
and though you never say it,
it's always there. The zero's there.
Zero at the bone. The zero counts.

5. How many children do you have?
I came across my school notes
on "The Waste Land," with
"the excised Fresca section,
the felt absence at the center
of the poem." And beside that,
I'd doodled a rococo question mark-
not yet understanding
how absence can define itself,
how, the more you put
behnd, beside, in front of it
the more pronounced its corners grow,
the edges sharper honed.
Touch them and you'll bleed.

6. How many children do you have?
The belly of the hole puncher
packed with paper cirlces,
byproducts, remainders, felt
felt absences.

The Notre Dame Review is published semi-annually with manuscripts being accepted between September and March, please send with a SASE for return.

The Notre Dame Review is definitely not just poetry. In this issue they had all sorts of forms of writing, from short fiction, poetry, to reviews of books and poems and even mini biographies. The book opens with "The Lion in Winter" a biography about twenty pages long by Herbert Liebowitz, who wrote about the later life of writer and physicianWilliam Carlos Williams. Though it is technically nonfiction, the piece was written with psychological insight that read like a novel and really interesting wording that read sort of like a poem, and I could tell why it was chosen for this review though it was nonfiction, because it was still a beautiful piece of artistic work. I specifically liked the reference to Floss, his wife, and the complicated relationship that they had, as he would sometimes write about in his poems.

The review is still mostly poems, and I really like the versatility that I found in them. The word layout of the poems seemed very unique, such as one by Mary Gilliland, "Quarantine in the borders" which divided the phrasings into two mismatched columns and three uneven rows. The aparent dissaray of the words seemed to give the allusion of chaos that I really thought contributed to the overall message of the story, which i think depicted the calamity that occurred along the border coming into the United States.