JUNE 2015

Click here to read the June Issue

Pages from SparksJune

Advertisements

Three Hybrid Pieces by Wilna Panagos

Three Hybrid Pieces

by

Wilna Panagos

duck days

a landscape of language. a syllabary. words visiting hot countries, poor tired words loved by the sun, and words like water. remember them. they are a somewhere.

tea as orange as the sky and brighter than water. and sweet, sweet as a confession. This is where we want to walk, say the feet, we want to walk over the sentences in the sand and feel their punctuation, their breves and tildes. gibbous daylight moon traffic calming devices, humps of found objects lying in the mouth like chocolate, murmuring birdsong: blue heron, Diderick cuckoo, promise. No fishing beyond this point. Even in Arcadia, here I am, says death, and and … I want to dance with you, says star god Fu and touches the truth around his neck, it is a wreath, it doesn’t sleep. Benzaiten closes her hands around the knowledge and says: sleeping flowers: Carnet: permit to drive across frontiers or use a camping site, explanation of an ambiguous word. Scot-free: unpunished. Cenotaph: monument to one whose body is elsewhere. leave a light on through the night. the lights between the trees, voyeurs, all of us. You knew me when I was hungry, whispers mr Zimmerman hoarsely, and mr Alighieri says: All the gold that is beneath the moon.

 dog days

You should create a god for yourself out of your seven devils, says Zarathustra, they think a lot about you with their pretty souls. Thus a star is thrown into the void and into the icy breath. Nothing of the sort can be said, says Guildenstern, what in God’s name is the matter with you? Who do you think you are? The Girl with her Hair Cut Short is a comedy by Menander, says the ghost. As it happens. Everyone bets with their lives that either God exists, says Pascal, or not. You have to wager. What will you wager? Morton’s fork! shouts another ghost, a false dilemma, it whispers. Uncertainty is the normal state, says Stoppard, you’re nobody special. So there you are, says Guildenstern. Conversely, a formal fallacy is a pattern of reasoning that is always wrong due to a flaw in the logical structure of the argument, says Zarathustra, ignoring Guildenstern completely. It renders the argument invalid, he says. But there’s always a bit of dialectic to help out, says Carl M, I have naturally expressed my thoughts so that I am also right if the opposite thing happens. All the horses behind the veil of ignorance are the same colour, says the first ghost and falls back into the canvas chair. It puts its arm across its eyes. The sun is so hot and abundant, it thinks. One must not think ill of the paradox, says Søren, it is the passion of thought. The ultimate paradox of thought is to discover something that thought itself cannot think. The Qualanders have very strong feelings of love in them. They are free from time and space, says the second ghost. They are roaming dervishes, it says. The true identity of a city is its absence, says Patrick Keiller, as a city it no longer exists, in this it is truly modern. London was the first metropolis to disappear, he says. Helen Keller erasure poetry, says ghost number two. Raymond Williams snorts and waves his arm at the skyscrapers behind them, the alienated city is a space where people are unable to map themselves, he says with his eyes on the sunburnt savannah. Dada rubber, says the ghost of ghost number two, an apparition on a bicycle. Ren means human-heartedness, says ghost number one. The blond grass around their chairs and around their feet ticks and whirs with insects. Stoppard hasn’t the faintest idea of what these insects could possibly look like. What is the last thing you remember? says Guildenstern, shaking the ice in his empty glass. The hundred schools of thought during spring and autumn, says ghost number three, that is where we should’ve walked away, it says, the Dog Star is rising. When the epoch changes, the ways change, says Han Fei and Walter Benjamin says: Every epoch dreams the one to follow. The seven lucky gods on their faraway ship full of treasure say nothing.

Seven severed heads [De rerum natura #4]

The dogs are running tonight, and the moon is baying. Their nails are scratching stories on the wet streets. The dogs are running and the city is howling, so full of people and light and trees. Lions are lying in its roofs. Lions blinking slowly and thinking of wolfsbane and recklessness, their muzzles red with blood. Lions remembering old dreams of thorn thickets and stalking their own piety. The dogs are running and a forsaken theatre whispers lines from old films to itself. Mould growing on its poor carpeting and broken chairs. Dust and ghost ushers. The dogs are running. What is the half-life of courage? Radioactive manholes clank as people climb down to take a little to get them through the night. The dogs are running and the city is building itself another suburb, reaching with its fingers for the river Lethe. Auribus teneo lupum: holding a wolf by the ears.

There is a room. All the walls are painted red. Warm and glossy with our blood. Words live here. There is nothing else in this room. The words are sleek and wet and impossible.

Eleanor: Tibialoconcupiscent: having a lascivious interest in watching a woman put on stockings. Acushla: term of address or endearment, darling. Cacoethes: a bad habit or insatiable urge. Abatjour: skylight or device to direct light into a room.

Elizabeth: Estrapade: a horse’s attempt to remove its rider. Abatis: rampart of felled trees and branches. Dephlogisticate: to make something fireproof.

Mia: Algerining: prowling around with the intent to commit burglary. Adfenestrate: to enter surreptitiously through a window. Aceldama: field of bloodshed or scene of violence. Abscotchalater: one hiding from the police.

Imogen: Abreuvoir: joint or gap between two stones in masonry. Tarantism: an urge to overcome melancholy by dancing.

Fernanda: Nelipot: someone who walks without shoes. Xerophagy: a diet of bread and water.

Thirty years later the house asks: what are you doing here? The kitchen looks annoyed when you want something to eat and there is crime scene tape across all the furniture. The lawn says: the dog is gone.

Mia: Caveat emptor – beware all you want, it will do you no good.

Fernanda: vestal, consumed, tamarind, libretto, maladroit, mondream.

Eleanor: You have such a bountiful skin.

Imogen: I remember. I want to feast on it.

Ghost no.2:  I wrap them in salt to protect them, so that they cannot leave me. So that I can remember them. I cannot sleep because these memories awake with a small and terrible sound and unwrap themselves in the dark.

Elizabeth: Mannequins never iron their own clothes or mistake social grace for love. Mannequins live in the light without flinching.

Eleanor: On an imperturbable Friday I dreamt that we were going somewhere in a big WWII car. Your hair was short and black and there was a little white dog between us on the backseat. Outside it was nuclear winter brown.

Ghost no.3: I can hear the owls but I cannot see them. Don’t open your eyes. The cars in the street sound like the ocean.

Mia: Hannibal is at the gates.

Imogen: Don’t be scared. Pass the paraffin.

Bio: Wilna Panagos’ work has appeared or is forthcoming in New Contrast Literary Journal, Gone Lawn, Otoliths, Museum Life , Medusa’s Laugh Press, Prick of the Spindle, The Undertow Review, Ditch Poetry, Psychopomp Magazine, Altpoetics, Hobo Camp Review. She wrote and illustrated a few children’s books and is currently writing something which may or may not turn out to be a fragmented postmodern novel. She believes in orange and pigeons, has an imaginary dog and lives in Pretoria, South Africa.

Her Facebook alter ego is here: www.facebook.com/mariahelena.havisham

The Vanishing Moon by Barbara Mulvey-Welsh

The Vanishing Moon

by

Barbara Mulvey-Welsh

Moon stands, hands on hips and head held high, astride the glittering evening sky

Shouting – cease your constant tugging – at the overbearing Earth;

Moon – my child, Earth replies – struggle not; I urge you look inside my tender heart

Do not mistake my embrace for restraint; I hold to you to keep you safe…

No! Moon shouts – as she pulls her hair – that cannot be

Your restraint is stifling; confining me

It’s killing me – Moon sags to her knees – nightly as I pull and tug

Ceaseless, trying to be free;

Moon – my child, Earth replies – you don’t understand the perils of the sky

Please! Moon shouts – as she stomps her feet – I understand that I must fly

Free and unfettered; I long to be me

Moon – my child, Earth replies – for you I shall grant your one demand

You may roam unfettered and free, when you finish your responsibilities

Speak! Moon shouts – as she cocks her head – I won’t be tricked or misled

Moon – my child, Earth replies – I have no tricks or treachery

At your wane, I will abide your wish to be unfettered; free to roam; free to fly

Heed my words – impetuous Moon – I demand of you a simple thing

What! Moon shouts – breathlessly, demandingly  – do you require of me

Moon – my child, Earth replies – you must be back again to rise

Why! Moon shouts – as she flops and pouts – you promised I could wander free

Moon – my child, Earth replies – free you shall be but not absolved

Of any and all responsibility

Bio: I started blogging as a hobby in November 2010. In January 2011, I joined Plymouth (MA) Patch as a paid columnist. In August 2014 I joined the Old Colony Memorial as a columnist and appear every other Wednesday in the print edition and on the wickedlocal.com websites. I try to write every day and have recently self-published a short-story and a book of poetry.

Joined by Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

Joined

by

Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

One  day it will be discovered. What will be found will be up for review. Nothing is gone for good. Nothing good is gone. Nothing gone is good. Good is gone. Gone is good. Good is nothing.  Nothing is good.

It took all of every minute up until now to get here, to get to this. Life’s been spent (waiting). Even when it wasn’t thought of as such.

* * *

Woke up, looked both ways before crossing the street. What could that mean? Don’t say there’s anything which can be called a reason or purpose as such. Jesus Christ. Some people.

* * *

Reality has no walls which can’t be broken. Voices explore places eyes don’t consider. The world we inhabit is a geode. Something hides on the inside. But what nobody knows up until now is that there are many kinds of geodes. Those inwardly bejeweled and those which are secretly rotting behind stone faces.

* * *

There was no place to put trust in you but that’s where it went when all the other hiding spots were already in use. Besides we all need a safe spot we want to rely on. Room has a way of being made when one is willing to take it.

Hearts have space for more chambers. Throats can squeeze in another stanza. Lungs have vacancies. Ribs were built to expand.

But it’s much too much to ask for eyes when they’re already being consumed facing consequences. Yet, for the rest, there’s a whole body formed just for hiding this corpse.

And when you left this was carried away too. In death we are, we were, we will be joined.

Bio: Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia is the author of Robot, This Sentimental Education and Yawning on the Sands. More work by Garcia can be found at kjpgarcia.wordpress.com.

Brickwork by S.Eta Grubešić

  Brickwork

by

S.Eta Grubešić

*

I’ m thirsty “, says the ground.

” It’s still not time to drink ” , say the hours.

” I’m cold ” , says the ground.

” It’s still not time to cover oneself ” , says the sky.

” It’s dark ” , says the ground.

” It’s still not time for light ” , says the day.

Neither time changes nor do people.

It’s just a semblance.

*

We entered the room together. I was hungry.

” There’s no light here ” , I said.

” I have no bread ” , she said.

We fed on darkness.

*

Like a wound.

Hackberry in the back yard.

Surround by the stony boundary.

It heals but hurts.

*

New graffiti on the wall.

A battle cry.

Neither the first not the last.

Conscientious objection.

*

I raise my hand in greeting.

Easily, just like a bird landing on a branch.

Afterwards, I caress the dead tree.

Bio: S.Eta Grubešić , is an ex-journalist, short story writer, poet and photographer. Her works have been published in various books, literary e-journals and portals.