Wyatt Underwood's poem "To Computers and Oz"

computers
I discovered you in 1965
you were eighteen and I was twenty-three
I felt like I had stumbled into a Norse doom
doom was what the Norse called fate
so it didn't have the grisly connotations doom has in English
but computer languages were like riddles, like puzzles
and I was asked to learn them, make them mine
then tease computers into solving problems we'd invented
how fast would a rocket climb?
how fast would fuel boil away?
how much fuel would a rocket need to...
oh!  I felt like a wizard solving those
and thrilled to take on the next ones
how does the spacecraft aim its camera?
and keep it from pointing at the sun?
and later how to use what we knew of gravity
to turn nothing more than doppler sounds
into probable locations of the spacecraft
it wasn't magic but it felt that way
and, better than magic, it worked
ah, computers, that was the trick of you
whatever we programmed you to do, you did
and that let us map the surface of the moon
and plan the trip to Mars and later Jupiter
the world was good then
I could and did forget Vietnam
Central and South America
it was just that one day when I looked up
the magic failed
I was a little tool in a big box of tools
and we were busy fooling people that we were doing good
we were the curtain the man used to disguise his tricks
and once the curtain began to tatter for some of us
soon it tattered for too many
and people no longer wanted to pay for the curtain
or for the man behind it
but by then he'd made himself indispensable
he and his minions swept away the shreds and bought a new curtain
velvet instead of linen
and it still works today
when Vietnam has become Afghanistan, Iraq, and whoever else we add
the man behind the curtain is busier than ever before
and I have lost the ability to see how he spreads good works
as well as so much misery
come on, Oz-makers!
weave us your spells again!

© 2019 Wyatt Underwood

Wyatt Underwood has been participating in the Los Angeles poetic communities since late January 2010.  He has published six books of poems and has had a collection of his poems published by World Stage Press.  He co-hosts or hosts at three sequences of open mics - at the Encino - Tarzana Branch Library, at the Westwood Branch Library, and at Beyond Baroque in Venice.  He participates at maybe a dozen other sequences of open mics scattered around Los Angeles.

Review of the new Los Angeles poetry anthology "Angle of Reflection"

I’ve written quite a bit about the Los Angeles poetry community over the last 15 years; its diversity, micro-communities, and its outliers. I founded an online magazine in an attempt to harness the incredible ocean of literary talent that exists within its borders, which is why I was curious to read Angle of Reflection ( © 2017 Arctos Press), which showcases the works of ten of L.A.’s poetry elite: Marjorie Becker, Jeanette Clough, Dina Hardy, Paul Lieber, Sarah Maclay, Holaday Mason, Jim Natal, Jan Wesley, Brenda Yates, and Mariano Zaro, (with an introduction by David St. John).

Angle, in no way, is a measure of the rich totality of the LA poetry scene, but it does offer a testament to a group of poets who are, above all else, committed to their craft. As noted by David St John, Angle, in part, was born out of this group of poets affectionately named “The Monday Night Poetry Posse”, which got its start at Beyond Baroque, LA’s nonprofit literary center which hosts workshops, readings, and literary activities designed to engage the literary community.

For the record, I personally know, admire, and have published some of the poets whose work appears in Angle. As a small press publisher, I appreciate the hard work, as well as the time and care the editors of Arctos Press put into producing an anthology for lovers of poetry. I especially  admire the fact that Angle is favorably represented on the female side, which is often the reverse for anthologies I’ve read over the years - and this includes one I published. I also respect the commitment this group of poets has for each other, and the work each one produces.

However, my admiration ends where poetic “face” begins with three poets in Angle, Becker (woman/sex/romance), Hardy (abstraction for its own sake), and Lieber (restricted narrative). While the poetic mechanics are above reproach, and their command of language enjoyable, they’ve not, in my opinion, provided enough of a diverse selection of their best work. I understand the need to put one’s best poetic foot forward, as well as the constant desire that exists in every poet who writes with an audience in mind. I’ve read, and been moved by, the work of these three poets in other publications, and I strongly encourage all who read Angle to seek out the works of Becker, Hardy, and Lieber through their poetry collections and chapbooks, as well as the journals they’ve been published in over the last two decades.
That being said, there’s more than enough beautiful diverse poetry in Angle, from Clough’s philosophical elegance in her poems “Evocation” and “Salt”; Maclay’s enraptured darkness in “Night Text”, “Grille”, and “Woman Chained to Fire”; Mason’s masterful balance of modernity and myth in “Reciting the Water”, “Midpoint Mercury Retrograde”, and “Inside the Radio”; Natal’s shamanic vision in “Borderline”, “My Student Writes”, and “Rain in L.A.”; Wesley’s personal witness to history in “Double Exposure”, and “First Boy”; Yates’ cinematic “The Universe’s Clock”, “Martini II” , and “Objects at an Exhibition”; and finally, Zaro’s tender and engaging moments of family intimacy in “Figs”, and “On Being Jewish, Perhaps”.

No anthology, like any poetry community, is perfect, though, I do agree, with St John, that this group of poets have evolved, and their work overall, “blazes with and without the accelerate of the group". Angle of Reflection will take its place as another milestone in the evolving literary legacy of Los Angeles, and I recommend reading it for both its strengths and weakness, and to keep reading the work of ALL of these poets, long after Angle of Reflection gathers dust on a shelf.

Angle of Reflection, © 2017 Arctos Press, www.arctospress.com, ISBN 978-0-98978471-9, 181 pages, $20.00

   

© 2017 marie c lecrivain

National Women's Month: Amelie Frank's prose poem "Emblems of Conduct"

(for Adele Slaughter)

“It was just the two of us, surrounded by staggering beauty.”--Claudia Handler

Here is the deal, Alma.  We won’t speak the names out loud. We will whisper them to each other when the time comes. Your job is to keep me from becoming sidetracked by my humor. My job is to speak the truth to you, to assure you that what you suffered from was neurasthenia, a nonsense disease ascribed to bright girls from whom the wrong things were expected and to whom the right things were denied.  Nobody suffered as much at the hands of small-town doctors as the bright girls did, Alma.  You were far more observant than you were ever given credit for, and like every small-town Cassandra, you were ball-and-chained to a nonsense disease.  No wonder the girl you were had to burn away entirely that harsh summer in order for you to survive.  Me, I burned for nearly thirty summers, twenty-five before I even realized that I was on fire.  I know that seems like a lot of time to you, but your lifespan is a two-act play.  I have been around for fifty-six years.  It took a long time for the good, sweet girl in me to evaporate.

Alright, Alma.  Now you whisper the name of your crucible boy to me, and I will whisper the name of my crucible boy to you.

(Listen.) (Whisper.)

Give me your hand, Alma.  You loved him more than any cool drink of water, any slice of frosted cake, any burst of your favorite color, any perfect day, any song hummed to you by your mother before she lost her marbles, any handkerchief redolent of your favorite sachet, any moment that your father told you he was proud of you, any archangel, any notion of perfection and the hereafter precisely because that boy was who he was.  He was a sharp boy, a hungry boy, and you understood him.  He was an imperfect thing, an arrow whose trajectory was well off the mark, but you loved him for who he was, and in the most secret cache of your heart, that was plenty enough for you, for the girl you were before summer burned away the anima of Alma.  On the surface, you seemed to have become carnal, selfish, perhaps even cynical. People are so quick to ascribe bitterness to maturity.  They mistake the slow pace of recovery for lassitude and indolence. But the truth of the matter is that you saved your most secret self, and you began to feed her.  And that was an absolute good.  We cannot feed love to others if we are not first fed ourselves.

So tell me, Alma.  What is the name of your new love?  And I will tell you mine.

(Listen.) (Whisper.)

I crossed a contested borderline in order to be with mine, Alma.  There are those who would judge me for the choice I made, including myself before my many summers of immolation.  But the days of Thermidor have tempered both of us, and I suddenly found the muscle to step over the line when love was offered to me for the first time in twenty-one years. I know, I know. That’s a lot of two-act plays.  And I know, that’s my humor cropping up again.  Forgive me.  I had to be fifty-six years old before a man looked at me and told me I was beautiful.  I had to be fifty-six years old before a man said, “I have fallen in love with you, Amélie.” And he said it first.  And I was so tired of being The Brokenhearted Girl that you, more than anyone, can understand why I had to step over to the side where he stood.  As with you, summer had to end for me some time.  It is a day-to-day thing with my new love.  And it is not in any way ideal.  But someone holds my hand, just as I am now holding yours, and someone thinks about me and misses me, just as that handsome stranger outside the casino is surely thinking about you.  You understand love better than most, Alma.  Don’t let any academic knothead tell you otherwise.  Oh, you see?  I made you laugh.  Good for me.  Good for you.  Conduct yourself with a heart full of love, Girlfriend.  Display no colors, no adornments but your own.  There is no sin in knowing better. There is no sin in survival.

© 2017 Amelie Frank

Los Angeles native Amélie Frank has authored five poetry collections, including Doing Time on Planet Billy Bob (Inevitable Press). Her work has appeared in numerous local, national, and international publications, including Art/Life, Lummox Journal, poeticdiversity (which nominated her for the 2016 Pushcart Prize), Blue Arc West, Sparring with Beatnik Ghosts, Levure Litérraire, Edgar Allan Poet, Cultural Weekly, and Wide Awake. Co-founder of the Sacred Beverage Press, she produced the acclaimed literary journal Blue Satellite.  She has been honored by Beyond Baroque Literary Arts Center, the City of Venice, and the City of Los Angeles for her activism and leadership in the Southern California poetry community.  She earned her degree in Creative Writing at U.C. Irvine and has served as a curator and trustee with Beyond Baroque, the Newer Poets Series, and the Valley Contemporary Poets. Nowadays, she is all about resistance, chocolate almond milk, Creepypastas, and being in love.

National Women's Month: Holly Prado's poem "Loss Refuses Safety"

LOSS REFUSES SAFETY

Vacation in Pompeii: gardens, wine and statuary --

Roman leisure at its best. What we see, though:

dead, immortal. At some point here in Southern

California, we'll have a devastating earthquake.

Where I live, there's plenty that could fall on me

and on my husband, cat, neighbors like the man

across the street who's mentally disheveled, occasionally

raving -- usually simply wants us just to give him something.

This is my neighborhood, my home, exactly what Pompeiians

had, along with gods like Dionysus who brought them grapes

and theater. A mosaic of a woman shows her slightly open

mouth, as if she wants to say how much she relishes the necklace

that she's wearing -- beads carry a jeweled cluster to her throat.

Hundreds of years from now, I hope our private histories will have been

written on retrofitted walls which last beyond the quake. I hope my story

mentions Robert, born to madness, and the couple in the next apartment,

Daniel and Lindsay, who are getting married in a month. Let us write

ourselves as difficult, devoted, loyal about love: Pompeiians put their arms

around each other as they died. The necklace and the slight embroidery on her dress weren't saved, but when I look at her -- this Pompeiian soul -- here she is, looking

right back at me. Everybody has a chance at immortality when there is no escape.

2017 Holly Prado

photo by Alexis Rhone Fancher

Bio: Holly Prado has had twelve books published, primarily poetry and prose poetry, but also a novel, two novellas, and a book of short autobiographies. She's the recipient of the 2016 George Drury Smith Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry, given annually by Beyond Baroque Foundation. Along with her husband Harry Northup and poets James Cushing and Phoebe Ozuna, she's a member of Cahuenga Press, a poets cooperative publishing press, now in its 26th year.

Interview with Los Angeles Jerry Garcia, author of On Summer Solstice Road

I can’t think of enough good things to say about Jerry “Grateful Not Dead” Garcia, so, I’ll stick with the facts. Garcia, among his many accomplishments, is an L.A. native, a multidisciplinary artist, and one of the finest poets Los Angeles has ever produced. His poetry is magnificent, cinematic, and unforgettable. His first collection, Hitchhiking With the Guilty, is a must read for anyone who wants to become familiar with seminal L.A. poetry, and his second collection, On Summer Solstice Road (© 2016 Green Tara Press), is a long time coming, much to the delight of myself, and many who have been waiting for his next poetic masterpiece. As a multimedia artist, Garcia has also embedded a series of QR codes in his new collection that “link selected poems to short poetry films that can be played on a smartphone or tablet. “(via Grateful Not Dead website).

Garcia was kind enough, between work, writing, and gearing up for the book launch for On Summer Solstice Road, to answer my questions regarding his new collection, and his own artistic process.

1) This is your first poetic collection since Hitchhiking With the Guilty. What inspired the inception and creation of On Summer Solstice Road?

JG: On Summer Solstice Road is a collection of poems rooted in mid-twentieth century America and expands from that era of disruption and exploration. I had seen my parents fretting over the possibility of nuclear war, I saw a president and his brother assassinated and riots  spring up in my home city. I also saw the popularity of television, the rise of rock and roll, especially the Beatles and men walk on the moon. Over half a century later upheaval and terror, mixed with rock and roll, are still watchwords in society; so my poetry strives to balance stories of evolution, redemption and hope.

2) On Summer Solstice Road is set up in four parts: Exposition, Context, Passage, and Re-entry. This, of course, implies a poetic journey for the reader. What are the reasons behind this particular arc, and what message do you hope the reader takes away after reading your new collection?

JG: I spent my childhood fearing the bomb, was a teenager during The Summer of Love and studied film-making at a Catholic University during the Watergate Era. These are the circumstances that inform my writing with references to pop culture and mid-20th Century history.  I'd like to see the reader find his intersection of ideals and perceptions with those offered in my poetry.

3) Your poems document the changing landscape of Los Angeles in a fundamental and heartbreaking way, particularly, the poem "Interstate 60", which describes the destruction of your childhood neighborhood in the name of automotive progress. What are your thoughts on the role of poet as historian/witness to history, and is this necessary to the evolution of poetry? Why/why not?

JG: That is certainly how I chose to write the poetry in this collection.  I like that Michael C Ford calls me “a firebrand observer of urban grit” because it sounds like Carolyn Forché's “poetry of witness.”  But  I don’t think it is necessary to always be an historian or witness to write meaningful poetry and not all poems need to be “meaningful.”  One might ask if a poem is articulate with a good cadence and color, how can it go wrong? Well, to answer my own question, a body of work would be pretty boring if it were all just for fun.

4) You've worked for many years in a visual medium as a filmmaker/photographer, and no more is it apparent than in the gorgeous imagery in On Summer Solstice Road. How does your visual art influence your poetic process?

JG: I like to think that I can exchange one for another.  When my day job kept me busy working on other people's creativity as a film editor, I learned how words could be used to put images on paper as it was not possible to shoot photographs in the absence of light. Ironically, I have now started making short art films using my poems as scripts.  Some of these films can be seen by scanning the QR codes on certain pages of my book.

5) Some of your best poems "Lupe", "Pochismo Me", "Memory Preserved in a Blue Ceramic Ashtray", "Benediction", and "Lexicon", could be described as confessional, but there is an earnest tone that keeps it from falling into the confessional category. Would you agree with this assessment, and if so, why/why not?

JG: I never think of myself as a confessional poet though I like to make use of personal history in my work. Most poems I write about childhood, coming of age or failed attempts at love come from within the writing process itself.  Like the case of "Memory Preserved in a Blue Ceramic Ashtray"  that poem came from a workshop exercise where I stared at this inanimate object and envisioned a story starring a composite of ex-lovers and a particular incident.

6) Your poem "War Without My Heroes" is a summoning of some of the greatest luminaries in history (Diane Arbus, Edward R Murrow, John Lennon), to come back and fill the present day void that is our real/virtual reality. Your stanza,

"Prophets, poets

truth-tellers of our time,

unheard and vexed,

voices hidden'"

is a clearly a warning that the days of art and poetry may be numbered. What advice would you give to present day poets and artists to make their words and images survive an entropic onslaught?

JG: Just keep creating. Strive to instruct, entertain or baffle. You may not be heard globally, but just going through the process to put that energy into the ether supports the cause.  Oh and avoid cliché, triteness and over-sentimentality. (I guess those are three words that mean the same thing.)

7) You've worked closely with Laurel Ann Bogen, and cited her as a direct influence on your work. What other poetic influences have shaped you into the poet you are now?

JG: Ah, yes. Laurel Ann Bogen taught me how to put a poem together and she inspired me to pursue that skill. She introduced me to the greatness of poetry and to the “greats" of poetry. She introduced me to Michael C Ford who has acted as mentor, editor and promoter. He introduced me to the work of Patchen and Carver who gave me a “grown-up” perspective. I never met Ferlinghetti but would like to think he and I would have great ‘woodshedding’ sessions. Then there’s Billy Collins for sentimentality-laden irony, Philip Levine for grit,  Carolyn Forché for her “poetry of witness” and ee cummings, for the way he pictures a poem on the page.

8) Your poem "How to Bury Your Dad", is a humorous, beautiful, and loving last will and testament as to how you want your remains to be interred, and with the hope that your daughters will grow stronger and closer together from the experience of your parting. What prompted you to end On Summer Solstice Road with this particular poem?

JG:First of all, thank you.  I couldn't have explained it better than you just did.  This poem describes the end of a journey and the beginning of a new one which is right where I wanted to leave the reader.

9) Many authors described feeling disconnected/divorced from their completed books once they are published. What are your feelings on the completion of On Summer Solstice Road?

JG: My feelings are mixed because I may never revisit these poems; they are now part of a book that will sit on a shelf to get sold and read and sit on another shelf. I does seem like a child who has left home. Now I want to package a new set of poems. You know, let’s go! On Summer Solstice Road is a compendium of experiences. Perhaps my next collection of poems should focus on the sensations during the experiences themselves.

10) You've got some appearances coming up in the next couple of months. Where will you be performing, and where can people purchase a copy of On Summer Solstice Road?

JG: The official book launch was on October 16, 2016 at Beyond Baroque where you can purchase the book in the Scott Wannberg Book Store.  It is also available at Amazon.com. Future readings will take place at the Studio City Library, Malibu United Methodist Church, The Second Sunday Poetry Series in Universal City and I’ll be leading a workshop at the Pasadena Library in December.  Dates and times can be found on my website www.gratefulnotdead.com.

On Summer Solstice Road, Jerry Garcia, © 2016 Green Tara Press,

• ISBN 978-1945085031, 108 pages, $14.95

© 2016 marie c lecrivain

David McIntire's No One Will Believe You: Songs of the Aftermath

“Poets are, in fact, the only real  time travelers that our culture has ever managed to produce.” - David McIntire/No One Will Believe You: Songs of the Aftermath

I’m sure the above quote has been written/will be a thousand different ways by poets past/present/future, but there is truth in these words, just as there is truth in all good writing - it takes the Reader (universal) into a place and time where they’ve not previously occupied. Poetry brings the reader into the truth of the moment, sometimes euphemistically, other times approximately, but the poems in McIntire’s new chapbook, No One WIll Believe You: Songs of the Aftermath (copyright 2016 International Word Bank Press), put the reader square into the savage, instant, raw pain of death and loss.

According to McIntire, No One is centered around two simultaneous incidents: the death of his marriage, and the death of his ex-wife, poet, Cat Angelique McIntire. McIntire states that these poems do not need to be read in a linear fashion, and he’s correct, as death and loss are not a linear experience. Open any page in No One, and the theme of death and loss, the grief that binds them together, is also the fuel that powers McIntire’s passionate poems. This is not an easy chapbook to sink into, and it’s not supposed to be, but the strong and unvarnished tone of McIntire’s words makes it an unforgettable experience, as in the poem “Dark Wind,” which expresses loss that is happening in the moment, and the loss that is yet to come:

the loosened threads should not be pulled

and yet

we pull

we think we know better this time

we do not know better this time

the tatters we call memory

are cruel and sharp

the dregs we call love

are bitter

we simply do not know any better

than the last time we stood

on the edge of this strange darkness

this mourning that ruffles our hair

and loosened threads

and the tatters…

and we pull

and watch as our world flutters to the ground

wet with our regrets

No One is not just about death and loss, but it also answers the question, at least for McIntire, and more likely, for the reader, how/ what the person becomes as grief shapes them into something, or someone else. In a sense, the poems in No One document the rebirth of McIntire as a poet, as he, and the reader, rediscover that part of us which cannot be overcome - our humanity - which, in the end, is all that’s really needed to keep moving forward in life, as in the poem “Death Poem #9”:

i have been instructed

to weep

to wail

to tear the skies

from the broken willows

upon which they drape so sadly

so darkly

i have been instructed

to lean into the grief

to roll the confusion into balls

and learn to juggle

meanwhile

i smile at strangers

and talk to seagulls

this is how I know I am still alive

No One Will Believe You: Songs of the Aftermath, leaves me with only one question. Who will McIntire become, ultimately, as a poet, and as a human being, a question that we all must ask ourselves, if we are to become better than what we are, at any given moment. I look forward to reading more of McIntire’s work in the future.   

No One Will Believe You: Songs of the Aftermath, © 2016 David McIntire, Baxter Daniels Ink Press International Word Bank,www.internationalwordbank.com, ISBN 9781537236490, 99 pages, $10.00    

© 2016 marie c lecrivain

Terry McCarty's "Interloper: New Poems"

      Terry McCarty's new chapbook, Interloper: New Poems, (copyright 2011/2012 McCarty Press), contains a collection of works that successfully make the case for narrative poetry, and poetry as social commentary. McCarty, an integral part of the L.A. poetry scene since the mid-1990's, is the kind of poet whose work will be appreciated by those who will listen to the voice along with the message. McCarty has an illuminating voice; unadorned, honest, and unapologetic. McCarty, to coin an oft-worn phrase, “tells it like it is.”

      McCarty's poetry does not contain the usual language tricks; i.e., rhyme, cleverly misspelled words, etc., though, he does employ bits of poetic satire when the occasion calls for it, as in the poem, “Herding Occupy L.A./ Out of Sight/ Out of Mind Blues”:

get along little protesters

get out of the street

get onto the sidewalk

fold your banners

and pack up your tents

because you are making

THE LOS ANGELES TIMES

and television journalists mad

as Heck

now the hounds are baying

for Charlie Beck

to tear off his peaceful-

interaction

make-them-disappear-by-

attrition-mask

and emerge as the Incredible

Two-Headed Hybrid of Darryl

Gates and Ed Davis

crying havoc

and unleashing the tasers and

batons

get along little protesters

business must do whatever it

wants

we're not going to listen to you

Occupy people

since our city is not a city of “the

people”

but a city of, by, and for

the Very Important People

of AEG

      Interloper, as a whole, is cohesive. McCarty's intelligent, caustic style dovetails well with short, direct lines of verse that lead the reader through a unique perspective of Americana on both a personal, and political level. There is also an engaging vulnerability in McCarty's poetry: not the “poor me,” confessional doggerel deliberately designed to elicit sympathy, but, a vulnerability that is more universal, and immediately appreciated; the struggle to come to terms with a part of ourselves, the part that does not let us instantly divine who we are/what our ultimate purpose may be, as in the poem, “Dropping Anchor”:

Threw my weapons overboard.

Wrenched my hand from my

throat.

Opened the galley refrigerator.

Enough rations to survive.

There will be books to read,

clouds to watch,

chances to say hello

to temporary people

who come for day-trips

in other boats

and stop to eat, drink,

wade in the shallows.

When they are gone,

maybe I'll learn to listen

until I hear the music

inside the silence.

     My recommendation: make room on your poetry shelf for Interloper:New Poems. You'll be glad you did.

Note: You can purchase Interloper: New Poems (copyright 2011/2012 McCarty Press, All Rights Reserved) at the following places:

1) Terry McCarty's blog:

http://poetry-arts-confidential.blogspot.com/

2) Beyond Baroque Bookstore

http://beyondbaroque.org/

poems copyright 2012 Terry McCarty

article content copyright 2012 marie lecrivain